Sam-centric Reader's Prompts
by Lennelle
Summary: A collection of one-shots based on reader's prompts featuring anything from canon or AU, pre-series, any season and post-series, both hurt/limp/sick!Sam or badass/hero!Sam. PROMPTS CLOSED.
1. Chameleon

I'm going to be adding any prompts as a chapters to this, if you would like to give me a prompt just leave me a message and I will get to it. The first prompt comes from Souless666:

 _For a while now, every so often writers would post up a Supernatural-Superhero story. (Usually mutants based around Sam with powers; sometimes Sam and Dean). So's I'm seeing if you would take a shot at one. Only real parameter is that at least Sam's the one with powers (You can give Dean some too, if you want, but Sam's got to have his. LOL). it can be set in the Supernatural world, or the X-Man, (Though it would be interesting to explore mutants having to exist in the same world as monsters, with Hunters not really caring to distinguish between the two.) Oh, yeah, John cannot be the usual d*** he tends to get portrayed as. (I'd really like to see him be the, more concerned, dad we got hints of during the show, but tends to get ignored by most writers.). Kinds of powers are up to you, though ones related to the show (If you go with a more Supernatural based story) would be ok._

This is set in a completely alternate universe where mutants and monsters both exist, as do hunters. Things are the same other than that, Sammy's just a little different. I hope you like it :)

* * *

They noticed Sam was different before the kid could even walk properly. Dean had been five years old at the time, but he could still remember the incident as clearly as if it had happened a week ago. At a year old Sammy had been curious and downright mischievous; if the kid wanted something he was damn well going to get as far as he was concerned.

John had been heating up a tin of SpaghettiOs in the kitchenette of the small house they had been staying in. It had only been a few months since their mother had died, killed by some _thing_. Of course, John had suspected mutants just like the police had; that was before he had known what else was out there. Dean had been keeping Sammy occupied, rolling plastic trucks across the carpet, Sam's wide eyes followed in awe. He grabbed at the toy and banged it against the floor, making babbled noises with each hit. Dean had wanted to tell Sam not to, he didn't have a lot of toys, but Dean hadn't felt like talking much since their mom had died.

"Dean, bring him to the table, would you?" their dad called from the kitchen. Dean gently helped Sam to his feet, holding tight when the kid wobbled on his feet. It was slow going from the living room to the kitchen; Dean had to stop now and then to keep Sammy from toppling over. Sam didn't seem bothered by his lack of balance; he just beamed and toddled along.

John set the hot pan on the table and bent down to pick up Sam. "Up we go, kiddo," he cooed, and placed Sam in the high chair. He went over to the fridge and looked around, frowning at the meagre contents and muttering distastefully about grocery shopping. Dean hopped up onto the chair opposite Sam and swung his little legs to and fro.

"Dean-o, do you want juice or milk?" John asked. He sounded tired, even at that age Dean had noticed. He nodded and held up one finger for juice, his dad went back into the fridge. That was when a horrible scream ripped through the air, Sam was wailing like nobody's business. John jumped up and Dean nearly fell off his chair.

Sam was holding out his hand, tears streaming down his chubby pink cheeks. The hot pan was right next to him and his hand was red and blistering across his sensitive skin. John took it all in and cursed, moving the pan to the other side of the table. He picked Sam up and held him on his hip, bouncing him gently.

"Shhh Sammy," he hushed softly, "Let Daddy have a look, huh?"

"Dada!" Sam cried and held his burnt hand up; John took his wrist and inspected it, a frown marring his face.

"Do I take him to a doctor?" he said to himself, sounding panicked, "God, Mary would've known what to do."

"Da," Sam sniffed. John looked back to the wounded hand and gasped. Dean got up on his knees and leaned over the table to get a look, his eyes widened.

The skin of Sam's hand was _changing_. The blistered skin was seemingly stitching itself back into place, the redness fading to the usual soft pink of Sam's baby soft flesh. After a short moment, there was no sign of any injury, not even a scar. John stared at it for a good long minute, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Finally, he set Sam back into the highchair and dropped into the seat next to him. He served out the pan's contents and added some already prepared sausage and peas to his and Dean's plates. He didn't say another word for the rest of the evening, just fed Sammy his dinner and cleaned up the plates.

Dean was sent to bed early that night and he could remember his dad making a lot of calls.

Missouri Mosely was a psychic, which was just a safer term for mutant, that way Miss Mosely could earn a living and keep her true identity under wraps. She opened her front door and looked the three Winchesters up and down. She smiled at Sam and Dean.

"Hello there, Sweetie," she cooed at Sam, then looked at Dean, "Come in, honey, I've just made a batch of cookies."

She turned around and didn't look back for them to follow. John nudged Dean forward and stepped in after him, not removing his hand from Dean's shoulder. He gazed around uncomfortably went to the living room where Missouri was setting down a tray of tea, cookies and juice.

"Don't dawdle, I'm not gonna bite," she snapped, though her voice was gentle and understanding, "Take a seat, why don't you?"

John did as he was told, setting Sam on his knees, keeping Dean close to his side. Missouri smiled and offered him a cup of tea. John politely decline which earned him an unamused scowl from Missouri.

"I haven't poisoned it," she said, "It's just tea. Would you have come here at all if you didn't trust me a little?"

John swallowed and nodded, setting Sammy down on the seat beside him. The little boy proceeded to shove his fingers in his mouth and suck. John took a cup of tea and sipped tentatively.

"I know why you're wary of me, John," Missouri said, "But one of my kind didn't take your wife from you."

John froze, eyes darting up to her. He hastily put the cup down and went to pick up Sam again. Dean got to his feet, realising they were leaving. He was a bit disappointed; he'd really wanted a cookie.

"Mr, Winchester," Missouri snapped, before John could take a step, "If you listen to me, I can help you."

"How do you know about Mary?" John demanded.

Missouri smiled kindly. "I know a lot of things," she explained, "I'm telepathic and clairvoyant."

"That's your mutation?" John clarified. Missouri nodded and gestured for them to take their seats.

"I suspect you're here to understand your son's," she said, looking over to Sam. John placed Sam on his knee and bounced him softly, touching his nose to the baby's fine, dark hair.

"So he is?" John asked, looking up again.

Missouri nodded and took a sip of tea. "I could tell as soon as you came in the door, honey."

"God…" John whispered. Missouri raised an eyebrow.

"He's no different than any other child," she scolded, "He's just a little special."

"It's not that," John insisted truthfully, he picked a cookie up off the tray and handed it to Dean, having noticed the way the boy had been staring at them. "I know it's hard for… people like you. I watch the news, you know, I see the protests and rallies."

Missouri's face pinched in understanding. "So long as you know that he's normal, that's the most important thing."

She gazed at Sam for a moment, then got to her feet and rounded the coffee table. She held out her arms.

"May I?" she asked. John paused them handed Sam over. Missouri held him on her hip and swayed, smiling when Sam grinned at her.

"You're a cute little thing, aren't you?" she said, Sam giggled and reached up to feel her hair, eyes wide with wonder at the new texture. "You'll be a smart one too, I can tell."

She placed a hand on the side of her head and closed her eyes. "Seems to me like he has some kind of regeneration."

"He healed a burn on his hand last night," John added.

Missouri nodded. "He's still just a baby, no doubt you'll see what else he can do as he gets older. Cell regeneration, huh?"

Sam giggled again and fingered Missouri's curls with his chubby fingers. "At least you won't have to worry about him getting hurt," she said as she handed him back.

John adjusted Sam on his lap again. "Do you have any advice?" he asked, "I'm kind of new at this, I've never met any mutants before, you know?"

"I bet you have," Missouri pointed out, "You just didn't know. We're just people like you, after all."

John nodded, smoothing down Sam's hair. "I know. I'm sorry." He cleared his throat.

"Can we talk just the two of us?" he asked. Missouri showed Sam and Dean to a small corner with a box of toys. Sam immediately started banging a toy car up and down before shoving the hood in his mouth. Dean didn't play, he watched Sam, and he listened.

"Demons?" John hissed incredulously, "You have to be joking."

"Are monsters and demons so hard to believe when your son is a mutant?"

John sighed heavily. "Mutants are… but _monsters?_ "

"I could feel it on your little boy Sam," Missouri said in a hushed voice, "I can read minds and I could see what he's seen, even if he doesn't remember. A demon came to your home, John; it took your wife from you."

There was a long silence. "I can't believe I'm asking this," he said tiredly, "But where can I find out more about this?"

* * *

By the age of six Sam was sweet and quiet and smarter than any other kid his age. He knew he was different to other children, and he knew not to tell anyone; it was their little secret. Sam still cried if hurt himself, like any other kid, even though he knew it would heal up very soon. Sam was a mutant, sure, but he was a child more than anything.

John was out for the night, like he often was. There was a hunt; children were ending up in the hospital. Bobby said it was a Shtriga.

Dean was in charge, like usual, and he was making SpaghettiOs on the hob while Sam watched cartoons.

"Sammy!" Dean called, setting a glass of milk on the table. Sam hopped off the couch and hurried to the table, taking his seat.

"When's dad gonna get back?" he asked.

Dean grabbed the pot from the stove, "Tomorrow."

"When?"

"I don't know. He usually comes in late though."

Dean was scraping the SpaghettiOs into Sam's bowl, he didn't notice Sam had been touching the hot pan until he took his finger away and stared at it. Dean dropped the pan on the table.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, grabbing Sam's hand. The burn was already fading away.

"I dunno," Sam shrugged, "I just wanted to see it."

Sam rarely regenerated if Dean or John could help it. They couldn't risk anyone finding out; you never knew where someone stood with mutant rights.

"Well, don't," Dean said, annoyed, "Eat your SpaghettiOs."

Sam sighed. "I'm sick of scabetti-ohs," he said.

Dean growled. "Well, you're the one who wanted 'em!"

"I want Lucky Charms."

"There's no more lucky charms," Dean said quickly.

Sam frowned, "I saw the box."

"Okay, maybe there is but there's only enough for one bowl and I haven't had any yet."

Sam gave a look which Dean could swear was a mutation; no one should be able to have that much power with one look. _Stupid Sam and his stupid puppy face_ , Dean thought as he thumped the cereal box onto the table. Sam reached inside and dug around.

"D'you want the prize?" he asked, smiling as he held out the plastic toy.

That night Dean screwed up. The shtriga attacked Sam, who woke up screaming, seemingly unaffected as it tried to suck the life out of him. The creature froze in its action, confused. John took it out as it was distracted.

* * *

John had promised to come home for Christmas. He'd told Sam he'd be there. It was late Christmas Eve and Sam was on the couch, wrapping something.

"What is that?" Dean asked.

"A present for Dad."

"Yeah right," Dean scoffed, "Where'd you get the money? Steal it?"

"No," Sam ignored Dean's tone, "Uncle Bobby gave it to me to give to him. Said it was real special."

"What is it?" Dean asked again.

"A pony," Sam said sarcastically, not missing a beat.

Dean snorted. "Very funny," he grabbed one of their dad's magazines and dropped onto the couch, flicking through it idly.

"Dad's gonna be here, right?" Sam looked up at him hopefully.

"He'll be here."

"It's Christmas," Sam reminded him, as if he'd forgotten.

"He knows and he'll be here. Promise."

"Where is he anyway?" Sam asked, there were the beginnings of a challenge in his tone.

"Business," Dean said, not looking up from the magazine.

"What kind of business?"

"You know that. He sells stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" Sam pushed.

"Stuff."

Sam scowled. "Nobody ever tells me anything," he grumbled. Dean looked up, ready to say something comforting, and jumped. Sam startled, looking at Dean with a wide eyes.

"What?" he demanded. Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"Your- your hair!" he managed to get out. Sam's hand shot up to his hair, feeling it, he scowled at Dean.

"That's not funny."

"No," Dean insisted, "Your hair is _red_."

Sam rose an eyebrow and glared at him. "Dean, that's not funny."

"I'm serious," Dean said, still staring, "Go look in the mirror."

Sam got to his feet with a huff. "If you're lying," he muttered, stomping towards the bathroom, Dean scurried after him. Sam turned on the light, looked in the mirror and yelped.

"My hair!" he exclaimed, both hands going up to his head. Dean stared too; Sam's hair had turned completely red; a deep, dark blood-red. Sam rounded on Dean and growled, "What did you do, Dean?"

"I didn't do anything, I swear!" he held up his hands. Sam watched him for a moment, then the tension drained out of his face, along with the colour of his hair which was turning back to brown.

"Look!" Dean cried. Sam turned back around and watched open mouthed as his hair changed back.

"What's happening?" Sam asked fearfully.

Dean snorted, which took Sam by surprise, he whirled around and folded his arms across his chest, annoyed.

"Sam, you have super healing powers," Dean pointed out, "And this surprises you?"

Sam frowned, considering it, and then he turned back to the mirror. "D'you think I could do it when I wanted?" he asked, twisting his face is concentration. After a moment his face turned red with effort and he dropped his shoulders giving up. Dean smirked.

"We'll tell Dad about it when he comes back," he said, heading back to the couch. Sam turned off the bathroom light and followed after him. He sat on the other end of the sofa quietly.

"Is Dad a spy?" he asked suddenly, his hair forgotten in favour of their previous conversation.

"Mm-hmm. He's James Bond."

"Why do we move around so much?"

"'Cause everywhere we go, they get sick of your face."

Sam sighed impatiently. "I'm old enough, Dean. You can tell me the truth."

Dean avoided his gaze. "You don't wanna know. Believe me," he said sincerely.

Sam was quiet for a second. "Is that why we never talk about…Mom?" he asked timidly.

Dean clenched his jaw and tossed the magazine aside. He jumped to his feet and loomed over his brother. "Shut up! Don't you ever talk about Mom. Ever!" he yelled.

Sam flinched back but Dean was already marching towards the door.

"Wait, where are you going?" Sam asked worriedly.

"Out," Dean snapped, he slammed the door behind himself, leaving Sam alone. He never saw Sam's hair turn rainy grey-blue.

When Dean returned later he could swear his heart stopped for a second when Sam brought out their Dad's journal and said, "Are monsters real?"

"What? You're crazy," Dean snorted, he was desperate to keep Sam away from all of that. His life would be difficult enough, one day.

"Tell me."

Dean avoided his gaze and hesitated. "I swear," he relented, "if you tell Dad I told you any of this, I will end you."

"Promise," Sam swore.

Dean smiled and sat down, looking at their dad's journal. "Well, first thing you have to know is we have the coolest dad in the world. He's a superhero."

"Super?" Sam repeated, "Is Dad a mutant too?"

Dean laughed. "No. He's a different kind of super. Monsters are real. Dad fights them. He's fighting them right now."

Sam frowned. "Was that monster real? The one that tried to get me when I was sleeping?"

The shtriga, Dean realised. "Yeah. It was real."

"You and Dad said it wasn't. You said it was a bad dream."

"You weren't ready to know," Dean insisted.

Sam paused to think. "It could've gotten me. What if another one does?"

"Dad won't let that happen," Dean promised. Sam looked down timidly.

"Dad's book said they got mom."

Dean let out a long breath. "It's complicated, Sammy."

"Are mutants the same as monsters?"

"No," Dean was a little shocked, "Sammy, mutants are just people who are a little cooler than everyone else. Monsters are different. Trust me. You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam muttered, looking away.

"Hey, Dad's gonna be here for Christmas. Just like he always is."

Sam nodded, tears lingering in his eyes. "I just wanna go to sleep, okay?" He rolled over onto his side, facing away from Dean.

"Yeah, okay."

Sam began to cry quietly. Dean didn't move. "It'll all be better when you wake up," he said but Sam cried harder. "You'll see. Promise."

Sam's hair turned back to that rainy grey-blue.

John didn't come home, but Dean gave Sam Christmas, as best he could. In return, Sam gave him a gold pendant.

* * *

At fourteen, Sam had almost perfected his control over his abilities. They had discovered that he was capable of rapid cell regeneration and manipulation; basically, he could control every cell in his body. He could heal wounds in under a minute, no matter how bad. He could literally customise his own appearance if he wanted to; hair colour, eye colour, skin colour, the size and shape of his facial features. Discovering each ability had been… interesting, Sam didn't have much control at first so it was difficult when he woke up the same colour as his bed sheets one morning, a powdery blue. He hadn't been able to go to school for a week. Dean had since nicknamed him 'chameleon'.

Sam liked to mess around sometimes, usually when he and John were at odds, which was why he currently had vibrant purple hair and pale blue eyes. John gripped the Impala's wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

"You'll draw attention to yourself," John warned, "We're going to a _hunter's_ bar."

"There is such a thing as hair dye," Sam pointed out, not looking up from his book, "They won't know."

"Hunters have strong instincts," John said, "If you lose control for a second you could turn into a freaking rainbow."

Sam looked up thoughtfully, like he was considering the idea.

"You will keep your hair one colour!" John commanded, "Or so help me…" he trailed off, muttering to himself, _it's just a faze, he'll grow out of it_.

The Roadhouse was busier than usual; they were his with the heavy thrum of conversation as soon as they walked in the door. Some hunters looked up, giving John and Dean a respectful nod, giving Sam an odd look. Ellen was behind the bar, she smiled when she saw them.

"Didn't think I'd see your back here so soon," she drawled, "How long has it been? A year?"

John smiled tiredly, "Good to see you too. Is Ash around?"

"Where he usually is," she answered, gesturing over her shoulder. John nodded and headed in that direction. Ellen set two bottles of Cola in front of Sam and Dean as they took their seats at the bar.

"Changed it again, huh?" she commented, looking at Sam's hair. "What did your Daddy say when you did that?"

"The usual," Sam said, and took a sip of his drink. Ellen was still looking at him.

"You wearing contact lenses now too?" she asked.

"Sure," Sam said, smiling to himself. Ellen stared a moment longer, then gave Dean a knowing look and mouthed, 'We'll talk later.'

She went back to serving customers and Sam continued reading his book.

"…She was a real tricky one," a hunter behind them was saying, "You couldn't get close, if she touched you, you'd be electrocuted."

"Some mutants can be scarier than what we usually hunt," another added. Sam froze beside him. "That's 'cause they can live among us like regular folk."

"They're just legal monsters," the first one laughed, "You reckon if people knew about Wendigos and the likes, then they'd fight for them to have human rights?"

"Nothing human about mutants. They're _mutated_ , ain't they? Ain't a werewolf a mutant too?"

"I don't reckon it'll be long before the government realises they ain't humans," a third commented, "Can you believe they let these things live among us? It's only a matter of time before they start listening to people's protests; mutants have too much power."

"I reckon so," the first agreed, "You see, I was hunting a Chupacabra when I came across this mutant girl and I caught her shocking someone. She could _electrocute_ people just by touching. This boy was hurt pretty bad so I figured putting her down would be for the best."

"What did you use? Silver, Iron?

"Neither," the first hunter said, Dean could hear the smirk in his voice.

"What worked then?"

"A bullet in her brain," he said. The whole table burst out laughing. Dean looked over to Sam who was bent low over the bar, his hands in tight fists. The tips of his hair were turning red.

"Sam…" Dean tried to put a hand on his shoulder but Sam was already out of his seat, dashing for the bathroom. Dean hurried after him, ignoring Ellen's concerned looks.

In the bathroom, Sam was leaning over sink, shoulders shaking.

"Sam, they don't know, okay?" he said. Sam looked up into the mirror and Dean saw that his hair was dark red, his skin was almost white, as were his irises.

"I can't get it under control," he sobbed, tears slipping down his cheeks, "I can't let anyone see me like this, they'll know."

"You need to calm down," Dean said, patting Sam's shoulder.

"They just killed her, Dean," Sam said miserably, "Because of what she was. What if she didn't mean to hurt that boy? What if she was defending herself?"

"I don't know what happened, Sam," Dean said gently.

"Do you think they'd have killed her even if she hadn't hurt anyone?"

Dean frowned sadly. "No one's going to hurt you," he promised, "I won't let them."

Sam hid in Ellen's bedroom for the rest of the day, until the bar closed. He wrapped himself in her blanket and refused to let anyone look at him. He emerged again when John, Dean, Ash, Ellen and Jo were already eating dinner.

"You feeling better, honey?" Ellen asked, getting up to grab him a plate, "Dean said you felt sick."

Sam nodded. His hair was purple again, though Dean noticed it was duller than before, and his eyes were pale blue again.

"Thanks for letting me use your bedroom, Ellen," Sam took the plate and sat down next to Dean. He picked up his fork and pushed the mash potatoes around his plate.

"Are you a mutant?" Jo asked suddenly. The room went silent and Sam's fork dropped with a clatter.

"What?" he looked like a deer caught in headlights, his hair dulled down a little.

"Jo!" Ellen snapped. Jo flushed pink

"Sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to upset you. I was just wondering."

"We wouldn't care if you were, sweetie," Ellen added. It was clear in her voice that she knew. Dean knew that she'd figured it out; she'd talked to him about when Sam was hiding. He'd been waiting to tell Sam in private.

"I-I'm not…" he stuttered, but his body betrayed him, as it usually did when he felt emotional, and his hair turned canary yellow. Jo squawked, Ash and Ellen gasped. Sam clutched at his hair instinctively, trying to cover it up.

"Don't," Jo said, "I think it's pretty."

Sam flushed pink, as did his hair and eyes; a bright shade of magenta. Jo giggled and Ash moaned about how he wished he could change the colour of his mullet at will. Sam relaxed and kept his hair pink for two weeks.

* * *

There was a hunt for a black dog in Iowa and Sam was nearly sixteen. They were in a forest, as they were too often, and Sam's hair matched the colour of the forest leaves. His eyes were dirt brown.

They had a plan, one they'd gone over many times. Still, things can always go wrong, no matter how well you prepare. The beast didn't show up where they'd suspected it would, it turned out to be smarted than they thought, lurking in the bushes and watching them.

For some reason, it had its sights set on Sam.

There was no warning, the dog leapt out of the bushes and landed on Sam, biting hard into his shoulder. Sam cried out, hitting it in the nose. It backed off for a moment, shaking its head, then went back at him. It got his legs and dragged him.

Sam screamed and there was a sickening crack, and another, and then the sound of tearing flesh. John had managed to shoot the monster and it yelped, stumbling back before it fell to the ground with two more shots.

Dean was already running to Sam. He nearly gagged at the sight of him.

Sam's shoulder was completely blood-stained, but his legs… one was twisted at a sickening angle, sharp bone protruding through the skin. The other leg still in the dog's mouth, several metres away, and certainly not attached to Sam anymore.

Sam was panting, eyes closed tight with pain.

"Oh God," Dean choked, "This is… we should take you to a hospital."

"You can't!" Sam snapped, hissing in pain, "I'll heal."

"Can you heal this?" John asked, he was at Sam's other side, pale faced.

"I-I think," Sam peeked an eye open and looked down on his legs. He began to hyperventilate. "Fuck! I-I'm not so s-sure now."

"We need to get you out of here," Dean said.

John shook his head, "We can't move him."

"W-wait," Sam interrupted, "Let-let me…"

He leaned forward and ghosted his hands over the broken leg. He took a deep breath and grabbed it; he held the scream at the back of his throat. Sam yanked the bone back into place but he wasn't able to keep his scream in. Dean grabbed his shoulders to steady him.

They watched at the bone seemed to shift under the skin, and then the skin began to knit itself together.

"That's-that's a bit better," Sam muttered tiredly, letting himself lean onto Dean.

"What about the other leg?" Dean asked fearfully.

"I'll worry 'bout it in a minute," Sam mumbled into his shoulder, he could feel hot tears soaking his shirt.

"Wait," John spoke up, "Look!"

Dean reluctantly looked down at the stump where Sam's leg used to be. There was white bone protruding from the wound that hadn't been there before.

"No way," Dean gasped, amazed. Sam shifted against him.

"What is it?" he asked wearily, his voice was raspy from crying.

"Dude, I think you're growing a new leg."

"Huh?" Sam's voice slurred and he tried to sit up, he didn't make it far before his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell back. Dean caught him and lowered him to the ground.

"I'll burn the black dog," John said, getting to his feet. He went over to the beast and nudged it with his foot, the thing didn't move. He bent down and pried Sam's leg from its jaws. He turned to Dean and held it up.

"He won't be needing this, will he?" he asked, genuinely unsure. Dean gave him a look and John sighed. "I mean, he can't reattach it, can he?"

Dean looked down to Sam's stump; where the leg had ended just below the knee earlier it was now reaching midway down his shin.

"I think he's managing," he called back. They burned the black dog and carried Sam back to the car. He was deathly pale, even his hair, and he didn't rouse for another two hours when he had a brand new leg. He sat up in bed and stared down at it.

"Did you know starfish can regrow their legs?" he said, voice still raw-sounding from the impressive amount of screaming he'd done earlier. He lifted up his leg and wriggled his toes, a grin spreading across his face.

* * *

In the months before Sam turned eighteen he was becoming restless and visibly uncomfortable in the hunting community. They were meeting up with a hunter named Gordon to take on a group of shape shifters in New York.

"Have you even met this guy?" Sam asked, tapping his foot impatiently on the subway cart floor. They'd locked the Impala and their dad's truck up in a garage earlier that day, which only seemed to make Sam even more nervous. His hair was cobalt blue and streaked with silver, his eyes were mismatched blue and brown.

"I've talked to him on the phone," John answered, "He's a hunter, Sam, he just wants help on this job."

"To kill things that can look like anything they want," Sam hissed, keeping his voice down so the other passengers wouldn't hear, "Doesn't that sound familiar?"

John sighed. "Sammy, we've been over this."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam mumbled, "I'm human. Whatever."

They didn't talk much until the train came to a stop and John led them both onto the platform. There was a man waiting for them, which Dean assumed was Gordon, he was big and dark and didn't look like he was one for jokes.

"John Winchester," he greeted, shaking his hand firmly, "Thanks for coming out to give me a hand with this one."

"We were in the area," John said flatly, clearly not liking the man much already. He took a step back, "These are my boys; Sam and Dean."

Dean noticed the way his father kept a firm hand on Sam's shoulder protectively. Gordon was already eyeing Sam up, as most people did when they saw his vibrant hair. Dean stepped forward and shook his hand, turning his attention from his brother.

Gordon looked back to Sam. "Interesting… colours."

"He dyes his hair a lot," John explained hastily.

"I've never see eyes like that," Gordon said, ignoring him.

"It's a mutation," Sam said. John gripped his shoulder harder and Dean glared at him. Sam smirked, "It's called heterochromia. Like ginger hair or double eyelashes. What did you think I meant?"

Dean shook his head; Sam's mouth had no filter.

Shifters tended to inhabit dark, underground places. In this case it was the subway tunnels, much to Dean's dislike; he hated rats. Sam didn't seem bothered by any of it, he strolled along the tracks with them, not even bothering to use his flashlight.

"How can you even see?" Dean whispered to him. Sam turned to him, his eyes flashing in the dark; yellow with black slits like a cats. He winked at him. Dean punched him in the arm.

"Ow!" Sam hissed.

"Are you stupid?" Dean demanded quietly, "What if Gordon sees?"

Sam groaned and turned on his flashlight, his eyes turning blue and brown again.

It turned out a group of shifters consisted of three; which was unusual since they tended to live on their own. They took the first one down by chance; she was in the form of a girl around Sam's age with red hair. She had been walking along with a jug of water when Gordon jumped her, stabbing her in the heart with a silver knife. He dropped her body beside the tracks, her red curls fanned out like a halo.

"Red hair," Gordon pointed out, "That's a mutation, right?"

Sam gulped and nodded.

The others were not happy and came at them quickly. Dean was shoved into a wall, the shifter turning to Sam instead. Sam let it grab him then let his hair turn the same colour as the dead girl shifter's. The shifter holding him let go and stumbled back.

Dean clearly saw Sam mouth 'Run!' before the shifter took off down the tunnel. Sam turned back around and froze, Dean followed his gaze. John and Gordon had killed the other two but now Gordon's gun was trained on Sam.

"You're one of them," he said. Dean got to his feet slowly and held up his hands.

"Let's not do something we'll regret."

Gordon smirked at Sam. "I knew something was up with you."

"Right back at you," Sam replied, though his voice shook a little.

"Shifter!" Gordon spat.

"I'm not," Sam insisted, "Silver doesn't affect me. I'm human."

Gordon tossed the silver knife to Sam. "Prove it. Or I shoot."

Sam bent to retrieve the knife and held it in his hand. "See? It doesn't burn me."

Gordon snorted. "Make a cut, then I might believe you."

Sam looked nervously from John to Dean. Dean shook his head; if Sam made a cut then Gordon would see it heal up. If he didn't then Gordon would shoot him and they had no idea if Sam would be able to heal from that. Sam took a deep breath and made a slice on his arm. It began to heal up straight away.

"What the hell are you?" Gordon demanded, "A mutant."

"Yes," Sam answered truthfully, "I was born like this. I'm human. I've never hurt anybody."

"You let that shifter go," Gordon said, then was quiet for a moment, "That's enough for me."

The bang echoed throughout the tunnels, Dean couldn't tell where it had come from. There was another one. Two bodies fell to the floor. He looked up quickly; John had his gun pointed where Gordon had been standing, the man was on the ground now, eyes dull.

Sam was lying a few feet away; his eyes were half-open, his chest was still and there was a bullet wound in the centre of his forehead, a trail of blood making its way down his still face. Dean cried out and ran over to him, falling to his knees at his side. John was right beside him and between the two of them they cradled him on their laps.

"No, no, no," Dean muttered frantically, "Sammy, you just need to heal this. Come on!"

"Dean…"

"No!" Dean yelled, "If he can regrow a leg then he can heal _this!"_

"Dean, I'm so_" John cut off with a choke.

"No…" Dean whispered hopelessly.

They carried him back to the empty subway platform and laid him down on John's jacket. Dean leaned over and closed his eyes. They sat like that for a few minutes, unsure what to do.

"Dean…"

"No, I can-t_"

"Dean, look!"

Dean did. There was metal pushing back up through the hole it had entered, it fell to the floor with a soft clang, then the wound began to heal back up; first the soft tissue of Sam's brain was filling the hole, then a new layer of skull, then the skin. Sam shot up with a heavy gasp, eyes wide and watering. Dean caught his shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug, gripping him so hard like he'd never let go.

Sam took a few gulping breaths then said, "I don't think I want to do this anymore."

* * *

When Jess died Sam's hair turned grey. He couldn't change it no matter how hard he tried.

Then the visions came and Dean was certain they weren't a part of the mutation.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed that, I certainly really liked writing it. I'll leave it there seeing as John was requested and most events following the pilot only have a small amount of John. I already have one other prompt from Kas3y which will be the next chapter.**

 **If you have any prompts please PM me and I will get right on it. I would like mostly Sam-centric prompts, they can be canon or AU, they can feature hurt/sick/limp!Sam or they can feature badass/hero!Sam, they can feature any other SPN character and be pre-series, any series, or post-series. Please do not request slash, thank you.**

 **Again, I hope you enjoyed this!**


	2. Whiskey

The next prompt comes from Kas3y:

 _Dean stayed with Sonny back when he was 16 (I think thats how old he was) and Sam had to start hunting straight away as John became more focused on Sam becoming the best hunter out there. So Sam grows up a baddass, that doesn't take shit from anybody and his emotions are more closed off. He would be covered in scars as he has been hunting since he was 12 and Dean wasn't there to look after him, he drinks a lot, it could be a coping mechanisms or just because he picked it up from John. Would be cool if he had a nasty scar on his face, maybe down his eye or something, I dunno :P But just anything regarding this prompt. :)_

I love this idea and I think it could really be a realistic idea of what might have happened if Dean had stayed with Sonny. This is set over a long period of time, telling the story of Sam and Dean's encounters with one another after being estranged. Enjoy!

* * *

He'd been studying when he got the call. It was late at night and Dean was cramming, as he usually did around the summer exam period. His roommate was out, partying, but Dean had turned down the offer in favour of not failing his degree.

Studying was something he could do, believe it or not. It was something that kept him focused, working towards graduation made him feel like he had a purpose. Dean had never guessed he would be like this at twenty years old, but here he was. A lot had changed in four years.

The sound of _smoke on the water_ almost startled him. He glanced at the screen, not recognising the number, and frowned.

"Hello?" he said.

"Are you a Mr Dean Winchester?" a gruff, authoritative voice answered.

"Yes, I am," Dean answered, puzzled. He got to his feet, sensing this was something important.

"My name is Sheriff Krill and I'm calling from Augusta Police department in New York," the man answered. Dean felt his heart drop; he hadn't seen his family in four years, he didn't want their reunion to be in a morgue.

"What is it?" he demanded, "What's wrong?"

"Do you have a brother named Samuel, Mr Winchester?"

"Yes, I do," Dean told him, "Is he okay?"

"Well, we've got him here in lock-up and he says you can pay the bail and pick 'im up."

Dean froze. "Wait, wait… Sam's in _jail?"_

"Yes, sir," the sheriff confirmed, "I can tell you about the charges once you get here. That is if you're coming, otherwise we'll have to keep him."

"No, no, no," Dean interrupted quickly, "I'm coming. I'll be there in about three hours."

"Okay then," Krill snorted, "We'll keep an eye on him 'til you get here."

The phone call ended suddenly and Dean found himself staring at the screen for a long minute. He hadn't seen his little brother in four years, when the kid was still _a kid_. Now he'd be fifteen, almost sixteen. But the thought that was in the front of his mind was that Sam had called Dean for help, and it made him wonder where his dad was.

It took him under three hours to get to the small town of Augusta; his foot had barely left the pedal. It was a dreamy little town with just over two thousand occupants, it was the same sort of unmemorable town he would have stayed in when they'd moved around during his childhood. The small town had just as small a police department and Dean pulled into the parking lot.

He got out of his crappy little Skoda; it was good for getting around and not much else. When he drove he constantly found himself craving the feel of the Impala's rumbling engine, the smell of her leather seats, the sound of his brother and father bickering.

 _You want to stay? Fine. But remember, Dean, you can't have both lives._

He could remember his father's words so clearly. He'd always meant to find them again, but he'd forgotten how well they knew how to stay gone. Walking into the police station he tried hard to keep himself from sprinting and almost slammed into the desk. The woman behind it glared at him from behind her glasses.

"Can I help you?" She asked a little stiffly, smacking gum between her teeth.

"I got a call from Sheriff, er, Krill?" he said unsurely. She raised an unamused eyebrow.

"You here for the kid?" she asked distastefully. Dean shifted awkwardly.

"That would be me, yeah," he laughed uncomfortably.

"Okay," she began typing on her keyboard, "The bail is gonna be $500, Sugar."

"Five hundred?" Dean almost choked, "Jesus, what did he do?"

"The Sheriff will talk to you about that," she said, not looking up at him. Dean opened his mouth to speak but she held up a finger to silence him and picked up the phone. "Sheriff? Yeah, Mr Winchester is here to pay his brother's bail… Mm-hmm, I'll do that."

She put the phone down. "You need to go down this hall and knock on the office and the very end on the right, got that?"

Dean smiled tightly. "I think I can manage," he said and turned away, marching down the hall. Sheriff Krill was a large man with an obnoxiously thick moustache which was collecting icing sugar as he munched on a doughnut. It seemed that most small towns he came across in his life had the biggest clichés.

"Mr Winchester?" the Sheriff presumed once he caught sight of Dean. He set his half-eaten doughnut back in the box and dusted his fingers clean, "Let's talk about your brother."

Dean took the seat opposite and crammed himself in uncomfortably; the office was quite small.

"So," Krill cleared his throat and pulled out a file, "Samuel Winchester was arrested earlier today at 12.44pm. He was caught in his attempt to steal a silver jewellery box from an auction house here in Augusta, New York. Now, seeing as he has no history of crime and is under the age of 18 he will be granted bail, should you be able to pay it. If not, then he will likely have a meeting with the social services since his parents have been a no-show."

Dean bit his tongue.

"I believe Janice at the desk told you the bail."

Dean nodded.

"Good," the Sheriff beamed, "We only take cash."

Dean groaned. "I'll just go to an ATM then," he sighed, getting to his feet.

"Mr Winchester?" Dean turned around. "This is your brother's first known offence so make sure he doesn't make a habit of it; this will be in the system if he ever gets into trouble again."

Dean nodded. "Got it," he mumbled tiredly and headed out the door. It was late and dark and cold and Dean would rather be anywhere other than the middle-of-fucking-nowhere to bail his kid brother out of jail.

He got the cash out; cutting his hard-earned savings from $617.23 to $117.23, and he trudged back to the station, thumping the wad of cash down in front of Janice.

"Can I see my brother now?" he asked irritably. Janice rolled her eyes and counted up the cash then gave him some papers to fill out. By the time she and Krill were leading Dean to his brother he could feel his heart rate hammering throughout his whole body.

The small station only had two cells and only one of them was occupied by a boy with long limbs and floppy dark hair. He was wearing the usual Army Surplus getup they'd had since they were kids; a worn flannel shirt, scuffed up jeans, a second-hand t-shirt and a pair of sneaker that that had seen better days. He was lying on the cot with an arm thrown over his eyes.

"Samuel?" Krill called.

"It's _Sam_ ," came the irritable reply. Sam peeked out from under his arm.

"Your brother here's paid your bail," the Sheriff said coldly, not appreciating Sam's attitude one bit.

Sam sat up and looked at Dean. Dean had expected that blinding grin, those dimples, those bright eyes he'd been so used to. He didn't get anything.

"Awesome," Sam said, as if it were anything but.

Janice unlocked the door and Sam slipped by. Krill put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from going any further.

"We've done you a favour here, releasing you to the custody of someone who isn't your legal guardian. You better be going with your brother now," he said sternly.

Sam nodded, ducking his head and letting his hair fall over his eyes. Dean thanked them both and took Sam's shoulder gently, guiding him out of the station. In the parking lot the two of them stopped.

"Sammy…" Dean smiled.

Sam swallowed and averted his gaze. "Look, Dean, it was cool that you came to bail me out but I think I've got it from here."

Dean stared at him, confused. "So, you're just leaving?"

"Why? You did," Sam said sharply. He pulled up the hood on his jacket and turned away, Dean grabbed his shoulder. Reluctantly, Sam turned back around.

"I didn't _just leave_ ," Dean insisted. Sam made no reaction but to stare at anything but Dean. "I got sent to a boy's home, okay?"

" _I know."_

"And I liked it," Dean admitted, "I met a girl, I was doing well in school for the first time ever, I had a _normal_ life."

"Good for you," Sam folded his arms across his chest and obviously tried not to look interested.

"I wanted to have that life and I could," Dean went on, "But I never wanted to leave. I asked Dad if we could stay but he said it was hunting or Sonny's. I stayed for the school dance and by the time I got back he was gone. I looked for you, I swear, but you were gone."

Sam bit his lip and sniffed. "So, all I heard was that you picked some girl and a prom over your own family."

"It's not like that, Sammy," Dean said calmly.

" _It's Sam,"_ he growled back. Dean rolled his eyes.

"I guess I'm not convincing you," he admitted, "But, can I at least give you a ride?"

Sam stared at him for a long moment, as if there was some trick behind it, then nodded. Dean led him to his car, which earned a snort from his brother.

"Nice wheels," he smirked. Dean huffed.

"It was affordable, okay?"

"I didn't say anything," Sam said in mock defence and hopped into the passenger seat.

"So, where can I take you?" Dean asked.

"Just drive east of here," Sam instructed, "I know where to go."

Dean nodded and pulled out of the space. He headed onto the town's small main road and steered the car east. Sam didn't say a word, just slouched so far down in his seat that it seemed he might have been hoping Dean would forget he was there.

"So, why were you stealing?" he asked. Sam shrugged. "Was it part of a job?"

"Yeah," Sam said, though he didn't sound convincing.

"Yeah?" Dean frowned, "You sure about that?"

"Mm-hmm."

Dean sighed, realising it was a hopeless conversation. He cleared his throat, looking between Sam and the road.

"How have you been?" Dean asked. Sam looked up and frowned.

"Fine. Same old."

"And how's school, geek-boy?"

Sam squirmed uncomfortably at the sound of the old nickname. "Got suspended."

Dean almost swerved off the road. "Jesus!" he exclaimed, managing to keep them straight. He held the wheel so tight his knuckles began to pale.

"You got suspended?" he repeated in disbelief, "You did?"

"Uh-huh."

"What did you do?"

"Got into a fight."

"That's it?"

"Got into a few fights. Okay, I might have broken someone's nose… but they deserved it!"

Dean shook his head angrily and turned the car to the side, pulling it to a stop. He looked at Sam and watched the realisation dawn on him. He reached for the door handle but Dean was quicker and he locked the car from the inside.

"You can go when you tell me what the hell is going on," Dean ordered. It seemed to have the desired effect and Sam sat back up straight, looking not too pleased, but at least he wasn't trying to escape.

"There's nothing to tell," Sam argued, "Can I go now?"

"You think I'm just gonna leave you in the middle of nowhere?" Dean scoffed, "Sure they didn't suspend you because you're a dumbass?"

"Fuck off, Dean," Sam groaned.

"Why didn't you call dad to bail you out? Or Bobby?"

Sam growled. "We don't talk to Bobby anymore."

"You mean dad doesn't talk to Bobby anymore."

Sam ignored him. "And dad's already trying to lay low so he couldn't exactly come get me from the cops. I'm supposed to get to out meeting point, then we'll get the hell out of dodge."

Dean stared sadly at his little brother; the usual spark and enthusiasm in his eyes was hard to find, he looked far older than his sixteen years.

"Sam," he began. He had a million questions on his mind but he realised now wouldn't be the right time to ask, he decided on something else. "Are you hungry?"

They found a small diner just off the road a couple of miles ahead. It was still open even late at night and it seemed appropriately miserably, but they promised great cheeseburgers and that was enough for Dean. They took a booth and a waitress came over immediately since they were the only customers.

"What can I get you boys?" she drawled, sounding tired.

"Two cokes, and a bacon cheeseburger for me," Dean ordered.

"I'll have one too," Sam added, not looking up from his hands. The waitress wandered off to the kitchen. Dean frowned at Sam.

"Since when have you liked bacon cheeseburgers?" he asked. Sam shrugged. "Sammy…"

" _It's Sam."_

"Right, _Sam_ … What made you fight?"

Sam looked up.

"I know you, kid," Dean went on, "And I know you like to keep a low profile. I know you care about doing well at school. I know you're not acting like you."

Sam sneered. "You _don't_ know me. The last time you saw me I was twelve. Do you honestly think I'm the same person as four years ago? Do you think you are?"

Dean's heart constricted, the sudden weight of responsibility for his brother's current situation came crashing down on him. "Sam, I am so sorry."

Sam looked a little surprised. "Why?"

"I wonder if things would be different for you if I'd stayed," he admitted, "I never wanted to leave you, please believe me, I looked for you."

Sam hesitated for a moment. "I believe you," he said quietly, fiddling with his napkin. He cleared his throat, "So, what do you do? Now that you're a normal person…"

There was a slight smile on Sam's face and Dean couldn't help but grin because, God, he'd missed this kid so much.

"I finished high school," he told him, "I go to Alfred now, I'm an engineering major."

"That's cool," Sam mumbled, but he sounded truthful, almost wistful.

"You know, you can have that too," Dean said, "You can still get out."

Sam's lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something. "I can't," he said quietly, Dean knew that wasn't what he'd almost said.

"You can," Dean insisted, "You're only fifteen, for Christ's sake, you shouldn't be doing this."

"If I leave then who'll take care of Dad?" Sam blurted. He shifted restlessly in his seat, obviously embarrassed by his outburst that had drawn the attention of the waitress. She came over and gave them their orders, eyeing Sam pityingly as she did before sauntering off.

"Dad can take care of himself."

"No, he can't," Sam said, voice becoming quieter, "What do you think it'll do to him if I leave too? Do you have any idea what he was like when you_"

He cut himself off with a shake of his head and shoved a fistful of fries in his mouth. Dean had no idea what to say, he'd had the impression that his dad had been fine with leaving him behind.

Sam chewed slowly and swallowed deeply. "He'll get himself killed if I'm not there to have his back," he said, "I wouldn't be able to live with myself. And he won't stop until he finds the thing that killed mom… I'm sticking with him until the end."

"God, Sammy, you're just a kid… you shouldn't have to have all this weight on your shoulders."

Sam was too busy wolfing down his meal; already half of his burger was gone.

"You used to tell me that the hunt was the most important thing," Sam said between mouthfuls, "You told me to suck it up when I told you how much I hated this life."

"I'm sorry," Dean told him, "I was wrong."

Sam snorted. "You're so different… It's weird."

"Right back atcha," Dean said, "It's like we've swapped personalities."

Sam lifted one shoulder in agreement and popped his last fry into his mouth. Dean looked down and realised he hadn't touched a bite of his food.

"You know, if you ever need a break," Dean offered, "You can come stay with me."

Sam's nose twitched. "I can't take a break."

"What about school, do you have time for that?" Dean pushed.

"I'm getting my GED."

"Sammy, but you love school."

"I used to," Sam corrected, "But it's a waste of time. I need to focus on hunting. I need to be better."

"You're breaking my heart, Sammy," Dean said sincerely, "Please, come stay with me for a while. We can call dad and let him know that you'll meet up with him later. He'll understand."

"I can't," Sam insisted.

"Sammy, I don't think Dad realises what this is doing to you… if he knew he'd be kicking himself."

"I'm fine."

Dean sighed and took a bite out of his burger. He chewed it thoughtfully for a while, watching as Sam arranged his napkin and cutlery so that they were perfectly straight.

"Come stay with me for a few days," he repeated, "Just a little while."

Sam moved his napkin a fraction to the right until it was aligned with the cutlery then looked up.

"Just a little while?" he clarified. Dean nodded encouragingly.

"Okay," Sam agreed and Dean felt himself grinning. "But I need to use the bathroom before we go; I didn't really want to pee in prison, you know?" he added, sliding out the booth, "I'll be right back."

"Okay," Dean nodded as Sam headed towards the restroom. He waited, paid the bill, chatted to the waitress, assured her Sam was fine, and waited some more. A chef came out of the restroom and Dean called him over on his way out.

"Did you see a kid in there? He's fifteen, nearly sixteen, has shaggy brown hair…"

The chef shrugged, "There wasn't anyone in there," he said, then his eyes widened, "But the window was wide open… which is weird because we normally lock it…"

"Son of a bitch!" Dean cursed, jumping to his feet, he dashed out to the parking lot where one of the diner employees was standing with his hands fisted in his hair. He turned to Dean.

"My car's gone!" he exclaimed, "Someone stole my car!"

Dean groaned and rested his head in his hand. "Son of a bitch."

* * *

Dean graduated two years later, found himself a job at a garage; he'd decided to stick to something he knew before venturing out in search of a career. The more days he spent fixing cars the more he realised he enjoyed it. He'd even considered finding a town to opene his own garage.

He was walking how one night, having worked late, to find his apartment door unlocked. Despite having been out of the hunting life for eight six years he still had all of his hunter's instincts. He grabbed the knife he constantly kept strapped at his ankle and held it in front of him, tiptoeing into his hallway.

The lights were on and Dean could see a trail of blood soaking into his carpet; drops of crimson dripped along the floor. He followed it, his hand clenching tighter around the hilt of the blade. It led him to his bathroom, the door was slightly ajar and he kicked it open.

"Hey, Dean…" Sam was sitting on the floor, his back rested against the bath tub. He was ghostly white and had his hand clamped over his chest. He grinned at him sloppily, "Where d'you keep your first aid kit?"

Dean dropped to his knees at his brother's side. "Jesus! Sam, what happened?"

"Hunt," Sam slurred. He blinked heavily a couple of times. "Look, I think you need to stitch me up… can't do it myself."

Dean gently pulled Sam's blood hand away from his chest and peeled back the fabric which was sticking to his skin. The gashes were long and deep and pulsing, Dean nearly gagged at the sight of them, but he took a deep breath and steadied himself.

"What did it?" he asked calmly, grabbing a towel to press against the wounds.

"Werewolf," Sam said, huffing a laugh, "At least it didn't bit me, huh?"

Dean dabbed pulled the towel away again and hissed. "This is bad, Sam, you should go to hospital."

"No, Dean, I'm fine," Sam insisted, "Just stitch me up and I'll be good to go."

Dean shook his head exasperatedly, "Stubborn ass," he muttered. He replaced Sam's hand over the towel and made sure he had a good grip on it, "Keep pressure on it," he ordered, "I'll be right back."

Sam gave him a weary thumbs up with his free hand. Dean dashed back into the hallway and hurried to the kitchen, grabbing the medical box he kept under the sink. He'd always kept the typical hunter supplies in there, despite the fact he wouldn't need them, maybe he'd been preparing himself for the situation he was in right now without realising. As a last thought he grabbed a bottle of whiskey as well. Sam looked up when he came back into the bathroom.

"You didn't say goodbye last time," Dean said, dropping back to his knees.

"Sorry," Sam breathed, "Might've not been able to go if I did."

"What about the car you stole?" Dean tried to keep Sam from falling asleep.

"Left it on the side of the road," Sam admitted, "He probably got it back…"

Dean checked the wound again, pleased to see that it wasn't bleeding quite so much. He opened the box and pulled out the needle and thread, antiseptic wipes and gauze.

"You opening a pharmacy?" Sam asked, peeping at the medical supplies.

"I like to be prepared," Dean admitted, "I guess that's something Dad drilled into me."

Sam laughed shortly, groaning in pain. Dean looked up and noticed Sam's hair had been cropped short, he hadn't noticed amidst the shock of seeing his little brother and the shock of the blood he was soaked in.

"Where's dad?" he asked.

"Hunting," Sam said, sighing, "He had stuff to do so I took this job for him."

"Dad let you hunt by yourself?" Dean gasped, "You took on a werewolf by yourself and you're eighteen. What the hell was he thinking?"

He began to clean the wound. Sam hissed and jolted a little, Dean grabbed him and held him still.

"Okay… maybe Dad didn't send me," Sam admitted, "I might've told him I was visiting you."

Dean looked up and raised an eyebrow.

"Wasn't a lie, really," Sam defended, "I'm here, aren't I?"

Dean didn't give Sam any warning when he made the first stitch. The yelp Sam made was a little satisfying, he had to admit.

"Why would you tell dad you're visiting me?"

"So he wouldn't know I was hunting a werewolf," Sam said.

Dean sighed, concentrating on the stitches. "And why didn't you want him to know?"

"I, er, I wanted to…" he trailed off, looking at the whiskey bottle, "Can I get some of that?"

Dean handed it over without even looking up. Sam took a long pull and Dean couldn't help but notice how at ease his little brother was at downing hard liquor. Sam rested the bottle on the tiled floor, his hand still clinging to the neck.

"I wanted to surprise him," he went on, "Prove that I was more capable."

"Bang up job you did there, Sammy."

"Hmmm," Sam agreed, taking another long drink. He rested it back down and watched Dean stitch his skin back together. "He doesn't trust me," he said miserably.

"How do you know that?" Dean asked sceptically, "I'm sure he does."

"I can tell," Sam insisted, already sounding a little drunk, it wouldn't be too hard after bleeding out all over Dean's apartment, "Sometimes he looks at me and… he seems _scared_."

Dean snorted. "Dad's not scared of anything."

"He's not scared _of_ me. He's scared _for_ me," Sam said loudly, he sighed sadly. "He misses you, did you know?" he went on, "I think he wishes you were there instead of me."

Dean looked up and frowned. "Now, I know that's the blood loss and whiskey talking," he said, "Because the Sam I know isn't that dumb."

"It's true," Sam pressed, taking another drink. Dean grabbed the bottle and set it down out of arm's reach.

"I think you've had enough," he said when Sam tried to protest, "Besides, I'm almost done."

Sam grunted and watched him finish the job. Dean covered the stitches with bandages and sat back, the two brothers stared at each other, one with bleary eyes and one with sad eyes.

"Let's move you to the couch, okay?" Dean said, carefully pulling Sam to his feet. The kid had grown considerably since he'd last seen him; it had been hard to tell that he was taller than Dean when he'd been sprawled out in the bathroom. Sam didn't seem to have a lot of strength so Dean took most of his weight, managing to get him to the couch before he collapsed. Sam lay down and Dean covered him with a blanket.

"Thanks," Sam murmured.

"No problem."

"For last time too," Sam added, "For bailing me out… and buying me food. M'sorry."

"It's okay," Dean said gently, brushing Sam's hair back without realising.

"M'glad you have a good life," Sam said, "Think that's why I was so mad… 'cause I was jealous."

"Sam, if you don't want to hunt, you don't have to."

"Doesn't matter what I want," Sam shook his head.

"Of course it does," Dean argued, "You'll get yourself killed."

"S'part of the job."

"Screw the job!" Dean yelled, "I want my brother alive. That's all I care about."

"I know," Sam said sadly, Dean could see the beginnings of tears in his brother's eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that," Dean sighed, "While you're under my roof you don't say sorry."

"Sorry."

Dean frowned. "How did you know where I live, anyway? And you gave the cops my number back in Augustav."

"You think I'd just forget about you?" Sam smirked, "I always knew where you were. You looked ridiculous in that graduation cap, by the way."

"You… you were there?" Dean sputtered, "Why didn't you say hi?"

"You got _out_ , Dean," Sam said, voice getting more slurred, "I wanted it to stay that way."

He closed his eyes and Dean ran a hand through Sam's.

"I met a girl," Sam said suddenly, eyes still closed, "She's nice and smart and beautiful."

Dean smiled. "What's her name?"

"Jess."

"So, how're things going with Jess?" he asked.

"I met her in California and we had coffee… that was two years ago and I see her when I can."

"Why don't you stay in Cali for a while?" Dean suggested.

"I can't be with her," Sam said, "I know I can't… but, God, I think I love her."

"I think you have your answer then," Dean pointed out. Sam's mouth twitched into an almost-smile.

"Maybe I do," he agreed. He drifted off shortly after that.

Sam slept most of the next day at Dean's, and was couch-bound for a couple of days after. Foolishly, Dean had had the idea that Sam would be staying a lot longer but he wasn't surprised to wake up one morning to find the couch empty and a note resting on the coffee table that read:

 _Jerk,_

 _Thank you. I'm sorry._

 _Bitch._

That didn't mean it didn't break Dean's heart.

* * *

It was another four years before Dean saw his brother again for more than a short period of time. There had been quick meetings for Dean to stitch him up or bail him out. Once, when Dean was late on rent and close to being kicked out he found a wad of cash sitting on his kitchen counter; there was no doubt in Dean's mind of who had left it there.

He was awoken by a thud from the living room and he found himself darting towards it because his mind just screamed at him that it was Sam. He'd expected blood, maybe a broken bone, maybe just Sam needing a place to crash.

What he got was his little brother sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle of whisky.

"Sammy?" Dean called, already sensing that something was up.

Sam looked up and plastered a smile on his face, "Hey, Dean, I could use some help."

When Dean turned on the light he gasped at the grisly scar running from Sam's eyebrow to the bottom of his cheek. Dean hurried forward.

"What happened to your face?"

Sam shrugged away from his hand. "That's from a while back. It's nothing."

"That's not nothing!" Dean argued, "Where's dad?"

Sam shook a little, like he was suppressing a bubble of laughter. It was almost manic. "About that… he went on a job and he hasn't come back."

"When did he go?"

"A couple of weeks ago but he hasn't called and he won't answer his phone," Sam sat back down; Dean took the seat beside him.

"You need me to help you find him?"

"I already checked out his last hunt," Sam said, his voice was flat and his eyes were raw and puffy. "It was a woman in white… but Dad wasn't there."

Dean watched him, the way Sam's breaths were shaky like the slightest touch might shatter him. "Sammy, there's something you're not telling me," he said. A tear slipped down Sam's still face and he made no move to wipe it away. That's when Dean realised, "Sam, what about Jess?"

"Didn't work out," Sam took a slug of whiskey.

"How?" Dean asked gently.

"Demons," was all Sam said and Dean completely understood.

"My God… I'm so sorry."

Sam chuckled bitterly, "Exactly the same way as Mom."

Dean closed his eyes for a second, reeling in that information. "What do you need me to do?"

Sam looked up at him, his eyes were cold and filled with fire all at once, "We've got work to do."

* * *

I hope you liked that. Sam ended up being a little more emotional than I meant him to be, but to be fair I put him in some tricky situations and he spent about half of the story drunk. Also, I know he probably wouldn't have met Jess since he didn't go to Stanford but I like to think they were destined for each other.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter and to everyone who has submitted a prompt. I have six prompts right now and I'm working my way through them.

Next up is Eruthiawen Luin.


	3. Ritual

Eruthiawen Luin asked:

 _So I'm not 100% sure why but I'm always /hooked/ to kidnapped!Sam stories. Can you write something where he's kidnapped by hunters or witches or something because of his psychic abilities? Some hurt!Sam and badass!Sam, yesyesyes._

I set this during Season 2, post-Nightshifter. I warn you that this is a little bloody and gruesome.

* * *

Sam wasn't eating his breakfast; the short stack sat untouched on the table, all of his attention was focused on the files in front of him. Dean was nearly finished his _second_ helping from the breakfast buffet.

"Sam, eat your breakfast," he ordered through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. Sam didn't even look up, just put out his hand and expertly scooped his mug of coffee up, taking a long sip. Dean sighed, "I mean food."

"One second," Sam muttered, eyes still trailing along the papers in front of him, "I'll just finish this."

Dean rolled his eyes. He leaned forward and yanked the files out of Sam's hands. Sam yelped in protest and tried to snatch it back but Dean stuffed the papers between himself and the seat. Sam scowled.

"Dude," he sighed, "Are you serious?"

"Deadly," Dean answered, quick as a beat, "Now eat your damn pancakes or you won't get the dead-people pictures back."

" _Mortuary files,"_ Sam corrected, slicing through the pancake stack with his fork in one angry motion. He shoved a bite into his mouth, chewing exaggeratedly before swallowing it all down. "Happy?" he asked.

"Only when you finish the plate," Dean said.

Sam laughed, "Jesus. Am I five years old?"

"Close enough," Dean shrugged. Sam tossed his napkin at Dean's face; Dean sputtered and yanked it away and back down to the table. Sam was laughing harder than Dean had seen him in a long time, maybe not since the Tulpa case in Texas. Sam went back to his breakfast, eating every bit without complaint. Dean knew Sam had been struggling lately, the kid had a lot on his plate; dead dad, hunted by the FBI, nearly killed by Gordon freaking Walker, painful visions, the knowledge that Dean might have to kill him one day.

Dean swallowed back the thoughts and tossed the napkin back at Sam, earning another laugh out of him. Dean couldn't help but join in. After they'd paid for their food, the two of them headed back to the motel room to change into their suits.

The victims had all been the same; throats slit, drained of blood, and reeking of sulphur. Sam seemed particularly intrigued by this case.

"It doesn't make sense," he'd said once he'd been to the morgue, "Drained blood makes me think of vampires, but vampires use their teeth, not knives. And the bodies smelled like sulphur… but that doesn't make sense either, we would know if there was another hunter in town. Besides, everyone knows a knife won't take down a demon."

They visited the house of the first victim; a sixteen year old boy. His mother was red eyed and teary, but she still insisted on making them tea. Sam accepted it gratefully; even earning a small attempt of a smile out of the woman. Dean always admired the way Sam was with people.

"I know this is difficult," Sam said softly, the woman suddenly burst into tears and Sam whipped a tissue out of his pocket and handed it over, "Take your time, please."

"Thank you," the woman sniffed, dabbing at her eyes. She took a moment to calm down before looking up, at Sam, Dean noticed. "What do you need to know?"

"Can you tell us about your son?" he asked, "How was he before he went missing?"

The woman swallowed deeply. "Josh was always so kind, sweet, a little shy. He had problems with bullies, had done for a long time, but he never let it get him down. If anything, it made him the wonderful person he was; he had an impressive talent for empathy, even for his bullies. He used to say 'you never know everything about a person, even the worst people could be suffering behind closed doors'."

"He sounded like he was a wonderful young man," Sam said gently. The woman smiled through her tears and nodded.

"One day, he came home from school… _different_. He was acting very unusually; angry, disrespectful. He seemed to enjoy how upset I got over it. I wondered if it was just all that unkindness he'd received catching up with him. But I never got to find out; he was gone the next day. I didn't see him again until, until…"

She burst into tears again.

"Thank you, Mrs Day," Sam said, taking her hand in both of his, "This information will be very useful. We'll do everything we can to find your son's killer."

She nodded, not able to get a 'thank you' out, and she showed them to the door. The other two victims were the same; regular folk, they had nothing in common other than they were good people who were suffering in some way.

"It makes sense if we're talking about demons here," Dean said, "They tend to go for people who are emotional vulnerable, right?"

"Right," Sam agreed, "But why would three demons show up in this one town? And why did all of the hosts die in the same way?"

"I'm betting we'll find out soon enough; this is too organised for it not to be something important."

Sam made a _hmmm_ of agreement and they headed back to the motel room. Sam was on his laptop as soon as he set foot in the room; Dean took a seat on the end of the bed.

"You know, you can take a break, right?" Dean pointed out.

"Mm-hm."

"Well, why don't we get some takeout?" Dean suggested, "You can finish your research after you've eaten."

Sam chuckled.

"What?" Dean asked defensively.

"Next you'll be telling me to eat my vegetables," Sam smirked, "Or you'll cut the crusts off my PB&J."

Dean scoffed. "Whatever, dude," he said, "I'm just making sure you don't starve to death, which you seem determined to do."

Sam rolled his eyes, getting to his feet, he pulled his jacket from the back of his chair.

"Where are you going?" Dean asked.

"To get some takeout," Sam said, putting his coat on, "I saw a pizza place around the corner. What do you want?"

"All the meat they've got, peppers and onion," Dean said, smiling. Sam grimaced and muttered 'gross'.

"I'll be back in a bit," he said, closing the door behind him. Dean grabbed a beer from the mini fridge and relaxed against the headboard.

* * *

Sam tucked his hands deep into his pockets; it was a cold night. His nose was getting a little numb and he could see where his breath latched onto the air. He took slow steps, he wasn't in any hurry, and he'd wanted some time by himself. He'd needed air.

This case was really getting under his skin. Most things in their line of work didn't make sense, but this _really_ didn't make sense. The deaths didn't follow the pattern of any kind of monster he knew. He thought of Josh Day's mother, how much it would hurt to lose someone in a way you can barely understand. Sam knew all too well. He still thought about Jessica every day. Once in a while, though not as often as before, he would have a split second before sleep and wakefulness when he'd think she'd be lying beside him in bed.

He shook his head, long strands casting over his eyes and he tried to push the thoughts from his mind. He looked up, the sky was a deep, dark blue, and the full moon was beaming brightly. He'd already considered werewolves, but the kills had taken place outside the full moon. He was really grasping at straws now, and he's promised Mrs Day that he would find the killer.

"Excuse me?" A soft voice snapped Sam from his thoughts. She was around his age, at least a foot shorter than him, and she was looking up at him with a hopeful smile on his face.

"Yeah?" Sam answered, "Are you okay?"

She smiled shyly, tucking a blonde curl behind her ear, she had daisy stud earrings. "My car broke down," she said, "Do you know anything about cars?"

"My brother's good with cars," Sam said apologetically, "But I could take a look."

She bounced a little on her feet. "Thank you so much!" she exclaimed and grabbed his elbow, pulling him to the other side of the road where her car was parked, the hood was popped open. She flipped her scarf around her neck and shuddered, "I would call a repair guy but I don't have enough money."

"Well, if I can't do anything I can call my brother," Sam offered, "He'd know what to do."

She grinned; her nose and cheeks were growing pink in the cold. "You're a saint," she beamed, "Honestly, I thought I was going to freeze to death out here. Oh, I forgot to say, didn't I? I'm Amy."

She held out her hand and Sam shook it. "Sam," he replied with a smile.

Sam smiled back and bent down under the hood to take a look. He frowned. "Do you have a flashlight?" he asked. Amy was looking away, Sam followed her gaze towards the woods a little way off.

"What is it?" he asked. Amy jumped a little.

"Nothing," she said, "What did you say?"

"I asked if you have a flashlight," he repeated. Amy shook her head, gaze wandering over to the wood again. Sam stood up straight, squinting out into the dark, "What are you looking at?"

Amy looked up at him sadly. "I'm sorry," she said. Sam took a step back.

"What are you sorry for?" he asked, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth he felt a sharp sting in the side of his neck. He grunted, finding himself quickly growing numb all over. His knees gave out but he tried to grab onto the car hood, fingers scrabbling weakly for grip against the icy metal. Amy's face was becoming fuzzy but Sam could still see the pitying look on her face as clearly as he had a moment earlier.

He fell forward, face pressing hard into the asphalt. He made an attempt to push himself up again but his body refused to budge, leaving his nerveless hands to crawl slowly for the knife in his jacket pocket.

He didn't make it far before his hands gave up too. The knife was left useless by the car's front wheel.

He could hear people talking, muffled female voices. He could see Amy talking to someone. He could barely make anything out other than silhouettes. The car's engine revved and he was being dragged along, the gravel scraped at his skin. The last thing he remembered before everything went dark was someone trailing soft cold fingers down his cheek like an old lover.

* * *

Dean flicked through the TV, finding nothing of much interest. He could use a good action movie; he and Sam could hang out and eat pizza. Or a horror; the two of them always found amusement in the characters flapping around and squawking, not even thinking to pick up a bag of salt.

He checked his watch. Sam had been gone for just over thirty minutes. He cleared his throat and leaned back into the cushions. Sam was fine, he reassured himself. Sam was just getting pizza, not arrested by the FBI, or stuck somewhere having a vision by himself, too out of it and in too much pain to move.

Or maybe Gordon had escaped from prison and was making good on his promise. Dean grabbed his phone off of the nightstand and called Sam's number on speed dial.

Dean waited impatientlyas the phone rang.

"This is Sam."

"Sammy, where_"

"Leave me a message."

The tone rang out and Dean flipped his cell shut, trying to ignore the tightening feeling in his chest. Sam always picked up his phone.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to go down to the pizza place to meet up with Sam. That was fine; he was just going for a walk, really. That wasn't mother-henning at all. Dean was already yanking on his jacket and boots.

He hopped down the motel steps and ended up at a light jog, making it to the pizza place in five minutes. That only made Dean more worried, Sam should have made the journey in the same amount of time with his freakishly long legs. He pushed into the pizza place, almost barrelled, causing the man behind the counter to look up.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Yeah," Dean answered, walking over to the desk. He cast a glance around the small shop at the people sitting around for their pizza. "Did a guy come in here earlier? He's got dark brown hair, kinda long, he's really tall, about 6"4."

The man's forehead crinkled as he tried to recall. "I don't think so," he said, "And I would know, we haven't had a lot of customers in this evening."

"Goddamnit, Sam!" Dean cursed under his breath, already dashing back out onto the street. He retraced his steps back to the motel. It was dark and freezing and he was feeling sick to his stomach with worry when he noticed a glint in the corner of his eye. The streetlamp was reflecting off of something small and metallic. Dean hurried over the road to see what it was.

He picked up Sam's knife, which had been lying abandoned by the side of the road. He suspected that Sam hadn't made it to the pizza place because he'd seen something across the road, he looked up at the dark forest. Maybe Sam had gone to check it out, but whatever it was had disarmed him before he could get a hit in. The knife was clean of blood.

He checked the surrounding grass. It was damp at night and the grass was muddy. He could see no sign of Sam's footprint, and Sam had a heavy foot tread. There were smaller foot prints, coming from the trees, the mud had trailed onto the road. Dean guessed a group of women. Or dudes with tiny feet.

But Sam was a big guy; he would be able to defend himself against a group of women. Even if they had been supernatural, wouldn't he have gotten a hit in before he went down? Dean scanned the area, crouching low to the ground.

There were small pieces of torn thread; the same murky green colour of Sam's jacket. He'd been dragged, which means Sam was in no state to try to get away.

At least that ruled out the FBI or another vision. He wouldn't put it past Gordon Walker to be so messed up but Dean would know if that psycho was out of jail. The case and Sam going missing were connected; there was no doubt about it.

Sam was taken, by a group of women it seemed.

"Oh fuck!" Dean cursed, "Please don't be witches."

* * *

Sam came to slowly. His nose started working again first; cold, damp, coppery, sulphur, burning candles. Then his ears; women talking.

"He's handsome, isn't he?" someone said. He felt a hand on his cheek but he didn't have the strength the flinch away.

"I suppose so," another said, more serious-sounding, "But he's not here to be handsome."

"No," the first one agreed, "But a girl has eyes, you know?"

Sam began to feel his whole body again. He was cold, the breeze sent a chill across his bare skin, he was lying on something flat and hard, chilled like stone. His breathing began to pick up when he noticed there was rope bound tightly around his wrists and ankles.

"I think he's waking up," a new voice said. No, he recognised it. Amy.

"Sam?" someone was close to his face, he could feel their warm breath against his cold skin. With effort he managed to pry his eyes open, coming face to face with a red and white grin. She was attractive, but in a sharp, severe sort of way. All angles and contours. Her hair was black as pitch, her lips were painted deep red. But her eyes were what pierced through him; a pale blue, rimmed with black.

"Good," she praised, "I wondered how long we'd be waiting for you. You were only supposed to be out for a little while. Maybe you're a lightweight."

She chuckled, standing up to her full height. She was slim and willowy, graceful and dressed in black. She sent a spike of fear through Sam's gut.

"Wha's goin' on?" he asked, still trying to get his tongue to work. He yanked weakly at his constraints.

"Give your body a moment to wake up," She said, "I'll explain in a second. Don't worry."

Sam couldn't help but worry. He peeked around. It was dark but he could see that they were in a graveyard, one that likely hadn't been used in years judging by the rotting stone. He could see the full moon peeking through the tree branches above, casting a soft glow over him. He realised he was strapped to a chest tomb.

"This is a ritual," he realised breathlessly, he noticed the altar only a small distance away, one of the women was lighting candles.

"You would've figured that out earlier," the woman in all-black said, "But I suppose that's our fault for drugging you, only you wouldn't have come quietly, would you?"

"What are you going to do?" Sam demanded.

She sighed and leaned on the edge of the tomb. "I'll introduce myself first. I'm Selene."

Sam didn't reply.

"I'm a witch," she went on, "And you are a very important person, Sam. I've been around a long time and I've never met someone like you. I've been looking for you for a while."

"Why?" Sam asked, "Why am I special?"

"Because you are," Selene replied, looking almost pitying, "My sisters, Amelia and Marina, and I have been waiting for this for a long time."

"What are you going to do to me?" Sam begged, "Is it because of my visions?"

"And so much more," Selene said softly, "You have no idea how much raw power is buried under there, do you?" She swept a hand lightly over his chest.

"What are you talking about?"

"You'll see," Selene promised, "We have a ritual to make you all you can be, and ever faithful to the ones who freed you, we'll all be indestructible."

Sam shuddered. "Will I still be me?"

"An interesting question," another voice answered, Sam guessed it was Marina, "But we can think about that later. We only have a small gap of time to do this so stop flirting, Selene."

Selene chuckled. "We'll get started then," she looked back down to Sam, "We needed the sixth month's full moon and a long forgotten graveyard," she explained, "And the devil's own shall be bound above a killer."

She gestured to the small tomb Sam was bound to. "He murdered his wife," she whispered to Sam.

" _Selene_ ," Marina hissed, she stalked over and pulled Selene away, "We should get started."

Marina handed her sister a knife. "W-what's that for?" Sam demanded. The two witches looked over to him.

"We need to carve symbols," Selene explained, "Into your skin."

" _What?!"_

Marina shrugged. "Sorry," she said, not sounding at all apologetic, "Amy, get the blood ready!"

Amy hurried over, setting tall glasses of red liquid on the stone around Sam's near-naked body. Sam could smell the sulphur straight away.

"You were draining demons," he realised, "Why?"

Amy stopped what she was doing a looked down at him, frowning. "You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"Amy!"

She disappeared from Sam's line of sight again. The three of them were moving around, arranging the ritual. He couldn't stop his heart from picking up speed, his chest from panting. Selene returned, knife sharpened and ready, she took his face in her hand and brought the blade down to his chest.

"Don't, please-," he begged. Selene smiled, stuck the knife into his skin and dragged it along. Sam couldn't stop himself from screaming.

* * *

Dean smiled triumphantly. It seemed that witches didn't think to toss Sam's cell, even after rejecting all of Dean's calls. He managed to pick up the coordinates; Sam was still in town, near a burned-down church. Dean knew that couldn't mean anything good.

He grabbed his jacket, dialling for Bobby as he did.

"Dean?"

"Hey, do you think you could drive over to Decatur County, Iowa?" he asked, rushing out the door.

"I'm in Fort Dodge," Bobby answered, "About two hours out. What's going on?"

"Witches got Sam. I'm pretty sure," Dean said, "Took him to an abandoned cemetery. Sounds like they're going all out, I could use all the help I can get."

"I'm on my way," Bobby promised, "You watch yourself, boy, hear me?"

"You got it," Dean muttered distractedly, hopping into the Impala, "Call me when you get here."

"Dean-," he didn't hear the rest of what Bobby was going to say before Dean hung up, he sped down the road.

* * *

Sam thinks he might have passed out, but when he opened his eyes again, Selene was down to his legs, still carving. He could feel his entire body shake, but he couldn't feel the cold anymore. He was hot, too hot, burning all over.

"Amy," Marina called, "You can start the other symbols now."

Amy nodded and rushed over. She had a paint brush, which she dipped into one of the glasses. She put it to Sam's forehead and painted, he could feel the thick, congealing liquid as she painted his cheeks and chin too. She went onto his chest, painting over the slices in his skin. Sam wished he would pass out again.

Marina was chanting, saying something in a language Sam wasn't familiar with. She was getting louder as she went, repeating words, crying them into the silent graveyard. He only just realised that Selene wasn't carving anymore; Amy was almost done painting his legs. Then the three of them were all around him, holding up a glass of blood each. He didn't have the energy to move when they poured it out over his hands and feet. Then Selene was at his head, tipping it into his mouth. He choked and sputtered but it still went down.

He could feel it settling in his stomach; thick and sticky and dirty. He felt nauseous but he couldn't bring the blood back up. Feeling was coming back again, spreading down his arms and into his fingers. He felt light and heavy all at once.

The last words of the spell were chanted and Sam felt fire run through his veins. There was chaos inside of him.

* * *

Dean turned the car into the side of the road; the path to the graveyard had overgrown long ago. He dashed down, kicking tangling roots out of his way. He would see a small glow of light in the distance and he pushed on faster.

The woods seemed to be trying to hold him back, branches smacked him in the face, scratching his cheeks. Thorns latched onto his jacket and he hacked at them with his knife.

Then there was the screaming. He hurried forwards, nearly falling over tree roots. The wood was so thick and alive.

He stumbled into the clearing, knocking his senses off for a split second. He clambered to his feet, righting himself. Dean held his gun out, swinging it up, and ready to shoot. It took him a moment to realise what he was facing.

"Sam?"

It was like a scene from a painting; so still but so chaotic at once.

There was an altar, candles, Dean knew the signs of a ritual. This had been a serious spell. The yard was small, crooked and rotting. Two witches cowering behind gravestones, the crumbling stone barely hiding them. A woman was on the ground; black hair, black dress, pale blue eyes and a broken neck.

Sam was standing above her; taller than Dean had seen him, painted red over his pale white skin. Blood was all around his mouth, on his hands, everywhere. When he looked up Dean could swear he saw yellow flash in his brother's eyes.

"Sam?" Dean called hesitantly.

His little brother just stood staring back at him, the way a lion observed a zebra. He took a step forward and Dean couldn't help backing away. Sam's fingers twitched, the knuckles cracking. Dean's heart was pounding in his chest and he realised how scared he was of his own little brother.

 _He said I might have to kill you, Sammy._

Dean and Sam stared at one another. Sam's eyes were fiery, hungry, wild. Dean couldn't see his brother in them. Dean was searching, for anything that he might be able to grab a hold of, any piece of Sammy to pull back.

It was so quiet and Dean thought that maybe the fact that Sam hadn't gone for him yet was a good sign. But then Sam stepped forward and Dean gripped his gun tighter, completely unsure whether or not he'd be able to use it. There was a crack from behind; a twig snapping under someone's foot. One of the women had tried to make a run for it when Sam had turned to Dean, but Sam was fast. He whipped around and stretched out an arm.

The witch was flung aside, head smacking into a stone. She whimpered as Sam advanced on her. Dean took the opportunity and dived for the altar, tossing the thing over, smashing the objects under his feet.

There was a crack and another witch was dead. Sam looked to Dean again, head whipping up, eyes latched onto him.

"Sammy," Dean called, arms held out in surrender, he set his gun down on the ground, "You in there, little brother?"

Sam cocked his head to the side.

"I don't know what they did to you," Dean went on, taking a cautious step forward, arms still held up, "But you can fight it. I know you can."

Sam stared at him longer, eyes narrowing on him. Dean wondered if Sam could hear him.

"Trust me, Sammy."

He blinked at him, and there was a long second when Dean thought his brother might attack but Sam just gasped and fell to his knees, crying out in pain. "Dean!"

Dean rushed over to his side, holding his shoulders firmly so he wouldn't keel over.

"God! It's in me, Dean," Sam cried, groaning, a hand grabbing at his sweat hair, "They opened it all up."

"Opened what?"

"My powers," Sam choked, sucking in a shaky breath. The last witch tried to creep away but Sam shot up and pinned her to a tree almost by instinct. Sam held her there, both hands clutched to his head. There were tears gathering in his eyes.

"Reverse it!" Sam demanded.

"I-I don't know how," the witch gasped, she had turned as pale as her blonde hair, "My sisters, they…"

Sam cried out with frustration and yanked his hand to the side, she broke off with a gasp, dropping to the ground. She didn't get up.

Sam's whole body seemed to drain the moment the witch died and Sam fell into Dean, arms falling limply to his side, his head lolled onto Dean's shoulder. Dean caught him and held him tightly in his arms, one hand on his back, the other on the side of his face.

"You with me, Sammy?" Dean asked

"It's gone," Sam whispered with relief, his voice was small, painful sounding.

"Because the witches are dead," Dean guessed, "Are you in pain?"

"Mm-hmm," Sam murmured. Dean held him at arm's length and Sam seemed to be trying very hard not to crash back into him.

"Jesus," Dean hissed, getting a good look at the carved symbols in his brother's chest, "What happened?"

"They-they wanted me to be stronger. Said it was in me," Sam gritted out painfully. He gasped and hunched in on himself. Dean held him steady.

Sam's head was hanging, hair dangling over his red-painted face.

Dean didn't know what to say. He patted Sam's cheek reassuringly, partly to assure himself that Sam was there. "Come on, Sasquatch," he said, gently sitting Sam up, "We need to clean you up."

He hauled Sam to his feet, but the kid was nearly all limp and therefore a bit of a dead weight. Dean helped Sam stumble back to the Impala, taking most of his weight, an arm flung over his shoulder. It was a frantic dash back to the motel and Dean panicked when Sam passed out halfway there. He roused enough to help get himself up the stairs before falling unconscious again in the motel room.

Dean stood and stared at his brother for a while. Sam was laid out on the once-clean bed sheets which were now staining red. There was so much blood. Dean wondered how Sam was still alive he checked Sam's mouth for the source of the blood on his lips but he couldn't find anything. He began to worry about internal bleeding, wishing desperately that Bobby would get there soon.

Dean washed the blood from Sam's face, being gentler when he dabbed at the wounds. He hissed in sympathy; Sam was going to need a lot of stitches.

"Dean…" Sam's voice was raspy. Dean looked down to see his brother's eyes open to slits. Sam was sleek with sweat, getting hotter by the second

"Yeah?" Dean replied softly, setting the cloth back down.

"Gonna be sick," Sam groaned. Dean was quick as a flash, grabbing the tin trash can and pulling Sam up just in time. Sam retched, his whole body shuddering. It was a long five minutes as Sam heaved before he was spitting into the bucket. He leaned back with a gasp when he was done.

Dean set the can back down, freezing when he noticed all of the vomit was bloody. He looked up to Sam's mouth which was wet and red again. He quickly wiped it up.

"Sam, I think you need a hospital," Dean said. Sam rolled his head away and pressed his head into the pillow.

"Nuh," he breathed out, "M'fine."

"Sammy, you just puked up blood," Dean pointed out.

"Not mine."

Dean frowned. "Huh?"

"Not my blood," Sam spoke carefully, though his voice was shaky, "They made me drink it."

Dean got to his feet, running a hand over his face. He felt sick. "Jesus…"

"M'sorry," Sam mumbled.

"Not your fault, kiddo," Dean reassured him, brushing a hand over Sam's hair, "What exactly happened?"

Sam swallowed noisily and Dean quickly grabbed him a glass of water, waiting a minute for him to drink some. Sam set it back down on the bedside table with jittery hands.

"They wanted to make me their attack dog," Sam said, his voice was quiet and raw-sounding, "They had a spell to make me powerful… carved me up like a Christmas turkey."

He chuckled bitterly. "Then they painted on me with blood," he went on, looking paler, "Made me drink it."

He looked away shamefully. "One second I could barely move, the next I was snapping out of the ropes without breaking a sweat. Then I was just so _angry_. I just wanted to kill them."

"I know," Dean said softly, pressing a cold cloth to Sam's forehead, "Don't blame you. I would've gutted the bitches myself if you hadn't gotten there first."

"I don't remember much after that," Sam said, his voice hitched and Dean realised he was crying, "My head felt like it was on fire. Then you were there…"

"Sammy, go to sleep," Dean ordered, though he spoke gently. Sam was hot and weeping and definitely feverish. "It'll all be better when you wake up."

Sam closed his eyes and he sobbed for a few minutes before his breathing levelled out.

"Dean…" Sam whispered sleepily, "Don't let me get that far next time."

He fell asleep before Dean could respond. He stayed at Sam's bedside, checking which lacerations would need to be stitched as he cleaned them, keeping a cold cloth pressed to Sam's face, waiting for Bobby to arrive.

Wishing he could keep his promise to watch out for Sammy.

Wishing he felt a little less alone.

* * *

This took way longer than intended to write, I kept adding to it when it turned out too short. It was a good challenge though to write out of my comfort zone (If you hadn't noticed I'm a big fan of writing pre-series and AU)

I hope you liked it, please review :)

Next up is shannanigans.


	4. Day Dream Believer

The prompt for this chapter comes from Shannanigans:

 _I've got a request: after the darkness passes the Impala (treat the darkness however you like), Dean realizes that Sam is really hurt after the harsh beating. Please show the return of awesome big bro Dean! helping Sam with the pain. Perhaps Sam is so out of it he forgets Dean doesn't have the mark and is terrified of being beaten again. I'm easy going, so change this up as needed. Thanks!_

I really have missed bigbro!Dean in the show. I had a simple idea of Sam having a concussion but I changed it when I watched the trailer for season eleven, the footage in that gave me some ideas. I went with a Dean POV, which resulted in Dean angst, but Sam is still hurt. Obviously, this is set in season 11, so there are spoilers for the season 10 finale, and some mild spoilers for season 11.

* * *

Dean was all too familiar with that feeling of impending doom. It was never really fear, he hadn't been afraid of monsters snapping their jaws at his face since he was fifteen. It wasn't dread, he knew he was going to die one day, that's just how it was. But still, his heart beat a bit faster and his breath came a little quicker. It was his body forcing him to get ready; run, fight, save Sammy.

He'd just come so close to screwing up his one job; take care of Sammy. He'd come so close to slicing his own little brother's head off. He'd decided last minute that the most powerful entity in existence was not as important as Sam.

How fucked up were they?

How fucked up was it that Dean was in the Impala's driver's seat, with the back wheel well and truly stuck, and there was a huge smoky cloud of straight-up evil coming right at them, and they had nowhere to go, nowhere to run. How fucked up was it that the only thing on Dean's mind in those seconds before disaster hit was _watch out for Sammy_. Screw the world; screw everything, just save Sammy. Save the little brother he'd come so close to swinging a scythe at.

He looked to his right when Sam said his name.

"Dean," it came out breathy and almost shaking. Sam was asking for something. _What do we do?_

Dean knew Sam wasn't asking him that. The Darkness was already turning out to be way out of their league; it made the devil himself look like child's play. There was that tone in Sam's voice, the same one he'd used when they were kids and he'd have a nightmare. He'd slip quietly into Dean's bed and say his name, ever so quietly. Dean would pull the boy into his chest and wait for Sam to fall asleep before he followed suit.

Dean knew what that tone meant, he had for a long time. _Don't leave me alone_ , is what it said, _Stay with me._

Honestly, Dean wouldn't be anywhere else right now. Maybe he was about to be ripped apart by God-only-knows, but at least he'd have his brother at his side. Sam was grabbing his arm. It was almost like six years ago, Ruby was lying dead on the floor, Dean was trying to pull Sam out of the convent, Sam was staring into the open door.

 _He's coming._

The whole time Sam had been gripping Dean tight. _I'm sorry_.

"Dean!" there was that tone again, but it was more forceful this time. Sam had let go of him, bracing himself against the car. It was coming closer. Dean looked over and realised Sam had closed his eyes, just like he had moments earlier when he'd gotten to his knees, ready for Dean to kill him. Dean didn't even have a chance to do the same, the black washed over them, battering into every side of them like a hurricane. Sam was crying out beside him, but Dean couldn't see a thing, only darkness.

"Sam!" he cried back.

He could hear the Darkness. It was strong and forceful, making the Impala creak and groan as she was rammed from all side. But it was alive, Dean could hear it, whispering to him, he could feel the smoke of it snaking up through the vents and caressing his face. He shook it away, pressing himself into the wheel, hoping it would just get it over with.

There was screaming. Not him or Sam. The souls from the rack, he could hear them ringing in his ears. He gritted his teeth.

"You have to save Sammy," his dad was whispering, it was so real, Dean could even feel his breath by his ear, "If you can't, Dean, you have to kill him."

"You don't know me," Sam spat from his left, not his Sam, one from six years ago, "You never did and you never will."

"Cas is… he's gone. He's dead. We run the show now," He could hear from behind him. _It's not real. It's not real_ , "Ah! This is going to be so much fun."

He gripped the wheel, fingers going numb.

"Idgits…" Bobby said on his last breath.

Then then the darkness cleared. Dean opened one eye. It was a warm sunny day, like it had been before all hell broke loose. He was still in the Impala and it was oddly quiet, only a bird whistled contentedly in the distance. Dean looked up to an empty passenger seat.

"Sam?"

He twisted around in his seat, looking around, he was completely alone. He called out for his brother again, getting out of the car, scanning his surroundings. Sam couldn't have just vanished. He couldn't have. Not when Dean was _right there_.

Something banging behind him had him spinning around. The door to the restaurant was swinging, Dean walked towards it, the door kept swinging until he was right in front of it. He put his arm out, ready to push the door open, when he noticed the marks still seared into his arm. He jolted back, fingers going to the raised, scarred flesh.

"No, no, no," he muttered frantically to himself. The mark was gone. It had been zapped right off his arm. His head snapped up at a clatter coming from inside. He pushed his sleeve down and shouldered his way in.

"Howdy, partner," the man had been dead a long time, so had the demon inside of him. The grin was the same; wide and white, like a local dentist that took pleasure in yanking your teeth out. It was the eyes Dean would never forget. Yellow eyes. The same yellow eyes that had watched happily as it tore his family apart; burned his mother, cursed and poisoned his brother, killed his father.

"How?" was all Dean could manage. Azazel, this had been the one monster Dean could never get over, the one who had haunted him all of his life. Dean would have rather taken on Dick Roman or Lucifer. Hell, hanging out with Metatron would be better than this.

"You've made quite a mess, Dean-o," Azazel grinned, "I'm proud of ya!"

" _How?_ " Dean growled, not taking a step forward.

Yellow Eyes frowned. "You killed Death, kiddo," he pointed out, "There ain't no wall between the living and the dead. And you let out the darkness, you do realise that's the source of all evil… hence," he gestured to himself.

"Where's Sam?" Dean demanded. Yellow Eyes had the audacity to chuckle.

"That boy, huh?" he said fondly, "He always was my favourite. You know he's connected to me, had me coursing through his veins. He and I are practically family."

Dean advanced on him. "You son of a_"

Azazel tutted. "What are you going to do? You don't have a weapon."

Dean froze. Azazel perked up and pointed behind him.

"What about that big ol' scythe over there?" he suggested, "If it can kill death it can certainly take down little old me."

Dean found it in his hand, it was just as heavy as the last time.

"Where's Sam?" he asked again, glaring at the demon.

Azazel cocked his head to the side. "How do you know I have him? Maybe you do."

Dean was swinging the weapon before he could even process it. It met nothing. He looked up but Azazel was gone and Sam was kneeling in his place.

"Hello, Dean," Sam's mouth was smeared red, he smiled at him with bloody teeth, "Did you know the dead's coming back to life?"

Dean lowered the scythe, mouth hanging open. "Sam, what happened?"

"I found Ruby," he grinned, pupils blown wide.

"Sammy, no…" Dean breathed, despairing.

"I don't need you, Dean," Sam said, his irises were mostly consumed in black, "I'm stronger than you'll ever be."

Dean found himself raising the scythe. "You're not strong," he spat, "Try weak."

"I'm not some junkie," Sam insisted. Dean paused. He knew this conversation. They were going in circles. Lose Sammy, save Sammy, lose Sammy, save Sammy. "Dad always told you this might happen," Sam went on, his eyes were almost completely black, inhuman, "Maybe now is your chance. Just swing it Dean. You want to, I can tell."

"Sam…"

"I'm not human, Dean," Sam said, "Maybe I never was."

Dean gripped the scythe tighter.

"No," he said, dropping it to the floor with a clang, "You're my brother, always have been, always will be."

Sam blinked up at him, frowning.

"Let's go home," Dean extended his hand, "We'll fix you."

As soon as Sam's hand touched his Dean snapped awake. He was in the Impala again. He looked down at his mark-less arm and it occurred to him that he'd probably never left. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the rear-view mirror, there were black veins up his neck but they were slowly receding to nothing.

The Darkness was a disease.

"Please…"

Dean turned around. Sam was still in the passenger seat, smoky tendrils were snaked up his neck, under his skin. He was pressed into the seat, eyes open and staring ahead at something only he could see.

"Sammy, look at me," Dean leaned over and grabbed Sam's face, turning it towards him, Sam just looked straight through, "It's not real, Sam, whatever you're seeing isn't real."

Sam flinched. "Dean…"

"I'm right here," he said softly, gently patting his cheek.

"Dean… please don't… "

Dean let go, as if his brother's words had physically shocked him. Sam winced again, grunting like he was in pain. Dean gripped the front of Sam's shirt and pulled him forward, and hand going to Sam's neck where the Darkness was twisting itself into him.

"Sammy, you need to snap out of it," Dean said sternly, "It's messing with you, showing you your worst fears. It's not real!"

Sam didn't snap out of it and Dean cursed. He's stopped the hallucination by not killing Sam. He was terrified of Sam's destiny, sure, but he was even more afraid of the mark and the way it had made him want to hurt his brother. The dream had stopped when he'd refused it. He'd faced his fears.

"Sam, you need to not be afraid of me," Dean begged, "You need to…"

God, Dean had no idea. He looked up at Sam's face, wincing at the sight of the bruises he'd put there. It looked bad. He checked them over, but it was difficult to tell when Sam wasn't exactly with it at the moment. He had a good idea of how bad it was when Sam's nose started to bleed.

"Shit…" Dean mumbled, yanking the bandana from his jacket, he held it under Sam's nose.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he said, "I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for not sticking up for you when you went to Stanford, I'm sorry for going to hell, I'm sorry for making you choose me over Amelia, I'm sorry for Gadreel, I'm sorry for the mark. I'm so sorry."

Gasping, Sam blinked himself back into reality. He shifted in his seat, his head, rocking around, eyes squinting.

"Sam?" Dean called hopefully.

He'd expected something other than what he got. Sam's eyes widened at the sight of him and he grabbed frantically at the door handle, letting himself tumble out onto the grass. Dean could see the black veins fading away, but Sam had a glazed look in his eyes which had nothing to do with the Darkness and everything to do with the beating Dean had given him.

Dean hurriedly got out of the car, rounding the hood to Sam, who was crawling on his back to get away.

"Can't do it…" Sam mumbled, "Please… I can't…"

"Sam!" Dean yelled, trying to break through to him, "Stop a second and let me look at you."

Dean was faster than Sam in his state; he strode over, practically looming over him. Sam lifted up an arm protectively over his face. Dean dropped to his knees, gently taking Sam's arm and pulling it away. Sam gasped when his defence was taken away and Dean gritted his teeth through it.

"Sammy, look at me," he ordered, trying not to sound too harsh. Sam's eyes met his, though they were bleary and frightened, not quite fully meeting his gaze. "Sammy," Dean urged, "I won't hurt you. Never again."

Sam seemed to be using a lot of his energy, trying to take the information in.

"Look," he yanked his sleeve up, revealing bare skin, "The mark's gone. It's gone."

He held it out in front of Sam, who looked at it as if he'd never seen anything like it before. Sam touched his arm, seemingly unsatisfied with only visual evidence. He let go quickly, glancing around, his forehead crinkled with confusion.

"Where?" he slurred a little, then cleared his throat, "Where'm I?"

"You found me, remember?" Dean said, "The mark is gone."

He didn't feel like reminding Sam of other recent events. Sam was still glancing around.

"I, uh, I beat you pretty good," Dean added, voice thick, "That's why you're feeling a bit slow, that and getting Darkness disease… whatever it was."

"The mark's gone?" Sam clarified, seeming to not hear, or pay attention to the rest of what Dean had said. He lifted a hand to his face, wincing when his fingers brushed the bruising on his upper cheek. Dean pulled his hand away.

"Don't touch it, okay?" he insisted, helping his brother to sit up properly, "Let me take a look."

Sam flinched a little, it made Dean feel a little nauseous. He wondered bitterly what his parents would say if they were here, they'd been the ones to explain how important being a big brother was.

' _Careful, Sweetie,' Mary had said, placing a bundle of squirming blanket into his arms,_ ' _He's only small so we have to be very gentle.'_

' _What's he called?' Dean had asked, looking down at the soft pink face wrapped in the blankets, two bright blue eyes gazed up at his sleepily. Dean had been very confused as to how his little brother had been a bump one day and a wriggling pink thing the next. No one wanted to explain to him either._

' _Samuel,' John said from the other side of him on the couch, 'After your grandpa.'_

 _Dean's nose scrunched up, 'He doesn't look like a Samuel. That name's too big for him.'_

 _John chuckled and Mary kissed the top of Dean's head affectionately. 'We'll call him Sam for short,' she said._

 _Dean startled a little when Sam made a soft noise, almost a squeak. 'Did you see that?' he whispered with awe, 'He laughed.'_

 _John chuckled again. 'I think it was a sneeze, kiddo.'_

' _Oh,' Dean said disappointedly, he'd been hoping that having a brother would be fun. He looked down again, feeling even more disappointed to see Sam's eyes drooping shut._

' _But he just woke up,' Dean complained. Mary hushed him softly. 'Why's he sleeping again?' he asked in a whisper._

' _Babies need a lot of sleep,' his mother said quietly, 'He runs out of energy very quickly.'_

' _I thought he was supposed to play with me,' Dean pouted. John ruffled his hair, chuckling softly again. He seemed to be doing that a lot when Dean asked questions about Sam._

' _He'll play with you one day, bud,' his dad promised, 'You have to let him grow a little bigger first.'_

' _When will he be big enough?' he asked._

' _He'll be walking in a little under a year.'_

 _Dean's mouth dropped open. 'But that's forever away!'_

' _Oh, he'll be yapping your ear off before you know it,' John muttered knowingly. Dean wasn't listening; he was busy gazing intently at the sleeping baby that had been carefully placed in his arms. He wondered how Sam could possibly get any bigger; he barely even had any hair._

 _He understood what his mother had meant; Sam was tiny. He was much smaller than a lot of things Dean knew. That meant he should be kept safe, wrapped up in blankets like he was at that moment. Dean decided then and there that he'd be the best older brother there ever was._

Dean gulped, trying to ignore the burning in his eyes when he looked at Sam's beaten face, the way Sam flinched ever so slightly when Dean moved.

"Are you with me?" he asked. Sam nodded, though his glassy eyes said otherwise.

"M'just… God, my head hurts," he mumbled. Dean grabbed the penlight they keep in the glove box and shone it in Sam's eyes. Sam tried to look away before he realised what was going on. Dean let out a sigh of relief; Sam's pupils were reacting as they should.

"I'm gonna try to get the car on the road, okay?" he stooped down into Sam's line of sight. Sam looked at him for a moment, Dean didn't want to know what he was thinking, but Sam nodded and Dean got to work.

It took a few tries and a lot of muscle and Dean still hadn't gotten the car's back wheel out of the hole. Suddenly it was easier, Sam had grabbed the other end and the two of them lifted, managing to push the Impala back onto flat land. Sam leaned heavily against the trunk, head dipped forward as he took heavy breaths.

"Sammy, let's get you sitting down," Dean had already grabbed a hold of Sam's shoulder, steering him to the passenger side of the car. Sam sat down with a tired sigh, Dean knelt in front of him, a hesitant step away.

"How're you feeling?" Sam asked. Dean scoffed.

"Me? I'm fine," he said, "You're the one with…"

He trailed off. The one with bruises all over your face. Bruises Dean had put there. He'd done that too many times over the years.

"The mark's gone," Sam said, as if Dean didn't know, "How to you feel now?"

Dean hadn't really given a lot of thought. "Lighter," he realised, "I didn't realise how heavy it was."

Sam smiled, his eyes crinkling painfully around the bruising, the cut on his cheekbone stretching a little. "It's gone," he said again, the words carried on a sigh of relief.

"What did you see?" Dean asked, "In the darkness."

"Doesn't matter," Sam said evasively, "It wasn't real."

"Seemed real to you," Dean pointed out, Sam didn't answer so Dean added, "I saw yellow eyes… and you."

Sam looked up, his hair was dangling over his eyes a little. "Oh yeah?" he pressed.

"It wasn't real though," Dean said, "That's how I woke up. I knew it could never be real."

Sam looked down, seeming to understand, Dean could see it in the way his shoulders dropped.

"I saw you too," he said quietly, he took a breath "But it was real."

"Oh yeah?" Dean answered, just a quiet.

"You chased me with a hammer… got a lot of hits in too," Sam shuddered, "Over and over. Then you were going to_"

He cut himself off, glancing over to the abandoned restaurant briefly. Dean understood completely.

"I'm sorry," he said, a little helplessly.

"Then I heard you," Sam went on, "Apologising. But when I woke up and you were right in my face… and my head hurt..."

"I'm so sorry," Dean choked a little. Sam looked up and frowned.

"Don't," he said quickly, "I meant it, you know. You will never hear me say that you are anything but good. I forgive you. I always will."

Dean looked down to his hands. He didn't deserve forgiveness. Not from Cas. Not from Sam. Not for what he'd done. He realised the irony of his being on his knees before Sam, but where Sam had been in his position Dean had been ready to kill him. Dean was on his knees for forgiveness.

Sam sat back into the car, groaning a little. Dean automatically got to his feet and hurried around to the driver's side. He put the key into the ignition, melting into the seat a little as the engine rumbled throughout the vehicle. Sam hissed a little in pain at his side.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"I'll be fine," Sam said, "We've got bigger problems anyway."

 _No we don't_ , Dean thought, a little selfishly, _Nothing's more important than you._

He cleared his throat, pushing that thought to the back of his mind, setting the car back onto the road.

"The darkness brings out your darkest thoughts," Sam said, back into hunting mode, despite the strain in his voice, "What happens if people can't break out of it?"

"We'll see," Dean answered, turning onto the main road, "First we have to find Cas."

Sam nodded. "We've got work to do," he agreed.

* * *

I feel like this ended up being more Dean-centric, I did include Sam hurt and angst, but it was very Dean. I hope that's okay, I couldn't stop myself, it was an accident I swear. I'm sorry for going off-prompt (As I've done a couple of times) but I gave you baby!Winchesters to make up for it. Also, I thought that even if Sam was hurt, he would still be a little badass; getting Dean back on track. I know this wouldn't be how season 11 would be but it was an idea, if you've seen the trailer then you'll see where I got it.

Thank you for reading, please review, it really means a lot when you do.

Next up is whatnosheep.


	5. Winchester Season

Whatnosheep's prompt:

 _Set early S7_

Sam is struggling with the post hell issues, and the boys are on a case but something happens where Sam has to come through and save the day. But the side effects on Sam means that dean has to take care of him, maybe psychotic break or catatonic.

I really think they missed a lot of potential with Sam's story line in season seven; his mental health issues disappeared mostly until just before Cas returned to take Sam's hell trauma (Which I think was a way too easy way out) but never mind…

So, I'm going to set this after 'the mentalists'.

Warning: this is pretty dark. The case they work on is a little disturbing and Sam's hallucinations are very gruesome.

* * *

Sam's scar was itching. He could barely remember when he sliced the skin open, nor could he remember his brother stitching it back together, but the ragged tissue across his palm had become one of the few things tying him down to the real world.

Dean was speeding down the highway, knuckles white as he curled his hands around the wheel, eyes set on the road in a frown. He was clearly missing the Impala, flat-out refusing to even touch the CD player in whichever vehicle they had for the next few weeks. It was quiet, no classic rock, no rumbling engine, nothing. Sam missed the car too, the noise of her was enough to keep him distracted, the way she purred and rocked him to sleep, like she always did.

This car was too quiet

"Do you really think I'm just going to go away?" Lucifer leaned over between Sam and Dean, whispering right in Sam's ear. He had that usual look on his face; like a petulant child demanding attention, but the kind of entertainment he wanted was frying ants with a spyglass. Sam twisted away, pressing himself against the window, trying to ignore the expectant raise of Lucifer's eyebrow.

"You okay?" Dean asked. He didn't sound too worried, more casual, it's how Dean is, trying not to make a huge deal out of things. That's how Sam knew he's real. He's sure. He is. His fingers ghost over the scar on his palm anyway.

"I'm fine," he answered, though he wished he hadn't sounded so false. The look on his brother's face told him that he'd picked up on it too. "I'm fine," Sam said again, a little more clearly, trying to convince himself.

"You suck at lying," Lucifer sighed, bored. He began tugging on Sam's hair so hard that he had to stifle a wince. It felt real, he could feel the roots of his hairs being slowly plucked from his scalp. But he knew it wasn't real, he has to, but why did it feel so real? And if it's all in his head, then what does Dean see?

He pressed down so hard onto the scar that he actually groaned a little. But the devil went away and that was what mattered.

Sam closed his eyes, trying so hard to enjoy the peace he had for the moment. "You sure you don't wanna pull over for a bit?" Dean said, it wasn't really a suggestion, he sounded a little stiff, definitely worried. Sam didn't open his eyes, just relaxed back into the car seat for a moment.

"It's fine," he mumbled, he meant it.

Dean swerved the car onto the side of the road so quick that Sam had to grab the dashboard to stop himself from flinging forward. Dean pulled the keys out of the ignition and sat back, staring at Sam like he was waiting for him to say something.

"What the hell?" Sam blurted. Dean's nose twitched a little uncomfortably before he looked up into Sam's eyes, glaring at him hard.

" _What the hell_ is right," he said, "You were just yanking on your hair like your damn hand had a mind of its own."

Sam frowned, reaching up to where the devil had been tugging. The scalp felt a little raw and a couple of tiny strands came out in his fingers when he pulled away. He swallowed hard, feeling extremely sick.

"Is this," Dean sighed, voice softening a bit, "Is this like with the hand scar? Is it a way of… coping?"

Sam shook his head a little dumbly.

"Because if you need help figuring out what's real, Sammy, you just have to ask," Dean said.

"It wasn't me," Sam managed to say after a moment of fumbling at the patch of scalp again.

"Huh?" Dean was squinting at him a little, eyes flicking over him a little, silently searching.

"It was Lucifer," Sam breathed, "He was pulling my hair… it wasn't me."

"Sammy," Dean said, gently but strong enough to get his attention, "I saw you pulling at your own hair."

"But it wasn't…" Sam trailed off, realising by the freaked out look on Dean's face that his brother isn't going to understand that even though Sam knew that what he saw wasn't real, it was still real enough to him.

"We can give this hunt to someone else," Dean suggested, shrugging a little too casually, "And head back to Rufus' cabin, for a little R&R."

"Who's gonna take the case, Dean?" Sam snapped, he was getting really sick of people stepping on eggshells around him, "We can't just slack off. I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

"So? You think hanging out at Rufus' is going to make our problems go away? The devil is there; it doesn't matter where I am. I'm fine," he said stiffly, turning to face the road before adding, "I'm managing."

He could feel Dean staring at him for a moment before he turned the key in the ignition again and pulled onto the highway. No one said another word for the rest of the drive.

* * *

When they arrived in town it was nearly deserted, save for the occasional face peering at them through the curtains of dimly lit windows

"Well…" Dean blew out a whistle, "Ain't this a charming place?"

"It's a small town, Dean," Sam pointed out, "I bet everyone knows each other around here, so I bet everyone knew those kids. They're bound to be a little wary of strangers."

"I hear ya, man," Dean agreed, peering around for the nearest bar no doubt, "Still, it's creepy as hell."

Sam snorted. "Dean, we hunt monsters for a living but it's town's people that freak you out?"

Dean grinned at the sight of a run-down bar, filled with solemn old drunks Sam would guess, and he turned into the parking lot. "Yeah, well, I don't get people," Dean finally answered, "I don't get 'em. Especially when they're glaring at me like they want to sharpen their pitchforks."

Sam was about right about the only bar in town; a handful of silent regulars looked up at them when they entered before quickly looking back down to take a drink. Not even the bar tender paid them any attention.

"Homey," Dean said over-cheerily, "Really feeling the warm and fuzzies right now."

The bar tender glared at him then, stopping short from polishing the wooden bench. "Can I help you boys?" he asked a little bitterly, making it obvious he'd like the two of them to get the hell out.

"Just admiring the décor," Dean said. Sam glanced around at the stuffed animal heads and deer antlers hanging from the wood-panel walls. Hunting town, he realised.

The bar tender's glare hardened and Sam stepped in front of his brother, sensing the man's growing distaste for the two of them. The last thing either of them needed was for this town to hate them.

"Sorry about him, we've been on the road a while. We'd just like two beers, please," Sam said, "And directions to the nearest motel."

The man scoffed and went about getting their drinks. "You tourists?" he asked, face softening when he spoke to Sam, "This place ain't much for folk like you I'm afraid."

Sam smiled when the bar man gave him a friendly, and ever so slight, curl of his mouth. "Not tourists," Sam said, dragging Dean to sit next to him at the bar. The man gave them their drinks.

"Hunters?" he guessed. Dean nearly sputtered on his beer.

"Yeah," he grinned, "That's us."

"You know," Sam interrupted, "I would've thought there'd be a lot more hunters around these parts during the season."

The man sighed, slinging his clothe over onto his shoulder, he leaned on the bar and spoke quietly. "You fella's have come to town at a bad time."

"Why?" Sam asked, feigning ignorance.

"Normally we have a bunch of hunters showing up from nearby towns to hunt this time o' year," he said quietly, "We throw a festival too. But there was a… an incident."

"Incident?" Dean prompted. The two of them had already read up on the recent grisly case, but it was always better to find out what the local's said.

"We're a small town," he told them, smiling sadly, "The high school only has fifty kids. Some o' them like to go up to the woods, it's always been that way, an' they stay clear of huntin' areas. But a group of five kids didn't come back home."

He paused, watching Sam and Dean's reactions. He cleared his throat and went on with the story.

"Their folks began to worry, of course, and a search party went out. They found where the kids had been; bonfire, beer cans, the usual, but no kids. They found 'em a day later a way away in an old hunting cabin, strung up and gutted like game."

"Oh, my God," Sam muttered, dropping his head respectfully.

"Hey, sounds like a game we used to play," Lucifer said over his shoulder, "Remember that? See how far your intestines go…"

" _Shut up_ ," Sam hissed under his breath.

"Sorry?" the bartender asked. Sam jumped a little, looking between the man and Dean's puzzled looks.

"I'll be right back," he said hastily, stumbling away from the bar and towards where the sign pointed towards the restroom, ignoring the eyes on his back.

There was only one toilet in a small room with a lock on it. Sam slid the bolt and dropped onto the closed seat, burying his face in his hands.

"Keep it together," he muttered to himself, "Don't freak out."

"Come on, Sam," Lucifer moaned, leaning against the closed door. Sam jolted back. "Of course you'll freak out. Hey, remember the time you screamed so hard you throat bled?"

"You're not real," Sam accused, "I'm in here by myself and you're in the cage."

"Maybe," the devil shrugged, "But does that erase one hundred and eighty years of bonding time? I don't think so."

Sam just glared at him.

"Have you ever realised that you've spent more of your existence with me than you have with Dean?" Lucifer asked, "Hell, I'm more your family than he is."

"That's not true!" Sam yelled, he clamped his mouth shut and looked away, pressing his thumb into the scar on his hand, holding it hard until even after Lucifer had flickered away. He sighed tiredly and leaned against the wall. He really wanted to sleep, a lot. But sleeping usually meant nightmares, which meant not much sleeping.

"Sam?" Dean's voice came from the other side of the door, followed by an impatient knocking, "Sammy?"

"Yeah," he called back, "I'm right here."

"You alright?"

"I'm good," Sam answered, he got to his feet and washed his hands, splashing his face a little to wake himself up, before he unlocked the door. Dean was staring up at him with that look in his eye, the one he used when Sam was having visions, the one he used when Sam was sneaking off with Ruby, the one he had just after he got his soul back. Sam hated that look.

"I'm good," he said again. He was walking and talking, wasn't that enough. If people kept staring at him like he was a bomb about to go off them maybe he should do just that.

"We're going to check into a motel," Dean said, clearly a decision which wouldn't be protested, "Come on."

The bar man gave them a small wave on their way out, a worried look on his face, no doubt he'd made his own assumptions as to why Sam had acted the way he did. Sam nodded back, not really looking him in the eye. He didn't feel much like talking, or being fussed over.

The motel was decorated very similarly to the bar. The giant moose head hanging up between the two beds was a little unnerving.

"I'll grab us some food," Dean said, he'd been lingering by the door since they got there.

"Okay," Sam said, rummaging through his duffle for his wash bag.

"Burgers all around?" Dean asked. Sam grimaced a little, his visits with not-Lucifer that day still had his stomach churning and he wasn't interested in greasy minced meat.

"Salad's fine," he said. Dean let out a sigh, like he wanted a different reaction from Sam. Sam felt guilty for not being able to give it to him, but he really didn't feel like it. Dean left with a promise to be back quick. Sam hurried into the shower once he was gone.

He stepped into the warm stream of water and pressed down hard on his scar, he really didn't want a visit from the devil when he was butt-naked. He'd made that mistake a couple of times before. He washed his hair, using that apple shampoo he liked, the one Dean said made him _smell like a chick, Samantha._

Sam didn't really care. He wasn't going to pass up the small luxuries, after nearly two centuries of enduring things he couldn't even say out loud to himself he thought he deserved to have hair that smelled like apples.

He wrapped a towel decorated with stitch-work deer around his waist, padding over to the sink. He scraped his hair back into a hair tie, the one he kept buried at the bottom of the wash bag and as far from Dean's sight as possible, and pulled out his razor and shaving cream.

He worked his way around his jaw with the razor before dabbing it clean and dry. Looking back up to the mirror he noticed a dot of blood beading on his cheek. He ripped a small square of tissue paper to the cut. When he pulled it away a strip of skin came with it, long and fleshy and red. He stifled a cry, fingers fumbling to press the flayed skin back on but it only pulled more away, leaving him no cheek at all, just a gaping wound of bloody muscle.

He closed his eyes, then reopened them, hoping desperately that it wasn't real. The wound was still there, strips of thick flesh hung from his jaw. Dean. He needed to call Dean. He needed Dean, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from his horrific reflection. He reached up tentative fingers and poked at the bare flesh. He prayed to feel regular smooth skin, not the hot, wet thing he felt.

More came away at the touch, showing his teeth. He stumbled away from the mirror, grabbing the door, leaving red hand prints on its white surface. He managed to get himself to his bed, where his bag was, to find his cell phone. He fumbled with the buttons, hands shaking.

The door clicked open behind him.

"Hey, are you trying to call me?" Dean was kicking the door closed behind him, setting the takeout bag on the table. He looked down at Sam; only wearing a towel and leaning heavily against the end of the bed. "What're you doing down there? Are you wearing a hair tie?"

Sam turned his mangled half of his face away from Dean. "I don't know what happened," he said desperately, "It just _fell off._ "

Dean was stepping over to him, kneeling down at his side. He was serious now, whatever pathetic tone Sam was sure was in his voice must have caught his attention. "What fell off?"

"My _skin_ ," Sam moaned, "It was a shaving cut but it just kept coming away."

Dean sucked in a sharp breath and reached to turn Sam's face. Sam twisted further away.

"You have to let me look, man," Dean said, "I need to see how bad it is."

Sam let out a small sob, not letting himself cry much more as he turned to look straight at Dean.

His brother's eyes widened. "Jesus… Sam…"

"I don't know why it happened," Sam said helplessly. Dean grabbed his hand, looking at each of his fingers.

"I think I know," he said, sounding tired, "You've scratched yourself to hell."

"I barely touched it," Sam insisted, "It all just came off, the skin, the muscle. God, you can see my teeth."

Dean's eyes widened further. "Sam, I think you should look in the mirror."

"I can't," Sam said, eyes blurring with the tears he was trying to hold back.

"Yes. You can," Dean was already hauling him to his feet, steering him to the bathroom, and stopping him in front of the mirror.

Sam's cheek was a little bloody, but very much intact. It looked like a cat had been at his face, a small cat. He looked down at his finger nails, finding a little blood there. He looked back up, touching his skin gently, relieved to find it didn't come away. He caught a glimpse of Dean behind him, looking very worried and lost.

"I didn't realise," Sam promised, "I thought…"

"I know," Dean said quietly, rubbing his brother's shoulder, "The cuts aren't deep, just keep them clean."

Sam nodded, not really sure what else to do but stare at his face in the mirror. Dean quietly slinked out of the room, Sam noticed he left the door wide open.

He changed into a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt that boasted the rides of Coney Island, a stupid shirt Dean had won and gifted to him a long time ago. Sam just about still fit into it.

"We need to figure out how to stop this, Sammy," Dean said seriously when Sam took a seat at the table.

"You don't need to tell me," Sam mumbled, feeling his cheek sting. It was mostly red and irritated, only a little bit cut up.

"Maybe Bobby_"

"Bobby can't fix this," Sam snapped, "Even Cas couldn't fix it."

Dean's eyes flicked away, as they usual did when their late friend cropped up in conversation.

"That bastard made this mess," he growled, "He did this to you."

"I know," Sam said, more softly, "But he wasn't himself. He would never have done it, not the real him."

"Well, he did," Dean said sharply. He dropped into the chair opposite, "You're hurting yourself, Sammy."

"I don't do it on purpose," he argued, "I don't even know I'm doing it."

"There has to be something," Dean said, "A faith healer, another angel, a witch."

"Dean…"

"There has to be something," he went on.

"Dean," Sam said a little more loudly, his brother looked up, "Do you still dream about your time in hell? Do you get flashes of it?"

Dean swallowed self-consciously. "Yeah."

"This isn't something that's going to go away," Sam said, "I just need to learn to deal with it. There's no cure for Hell."

* * *

Dean didn't bring it up again, but he watched Sam like a hawk, mentioning here and there that it was about time they took a break. Sam kindly reminded him about the Leviathan, which Dean ignored. He heard him talking on the phone the next morning, Sam had gone out to get coffee for them both, he'd had to state his case to Dean to do so. Somehow, he managed to get back to the room in one piece, a bag of doughnuts and two coffees in hand.

Dean didn't notice the door open, he was facing the other direction, pacing. Sam may or may not have opened the door so quietly on purpose.

"He was _scratching_ his own face…" Dean was saying, "… no, I didn't see. I came back and he was babbling that his face had come off… yeah, tell me about it… and earlier that day he'd been pulling on his own hair…"

Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand through his spiky hair.

"I don't know what to do, Bobby. He's getting worse… what if he's just about cracked, I mean a guy can only take so much before he's rocking white scrubs."

Sam loudly dropped the bag onto the table, probably squashy a couple of doughnuts in the process. Dean whirled around, a slightly guilty look flashed across his face.

"I'll call you back," he said into the phone before hanging up.

"How's Bobby?" Sam asked, not bothering to hide the edge to his voice. He took a sip from the coffee cup, scalding the tip of his tongue. The burn sent away the Devil's singing in his head, Stairway to Heaven had woken him up that morning and came and went as he warded it off with his scar.

"He's working a case in Michigan, he's nearly done," Dean answered, calmly, "I reckon we regroup when we're done here."

"Why?" Sam asked bitterly, "Are we gonna check if the white scrubs fit?"

"Sammy…"

"No," Sam cut him off, "I'm managing. I told you."

"You're not managing, Sam. God. You're a mess."

"I'm always a mess," it came out breathlessly, "I was born a mess, Dean. You realise that the hallucinations have always been like this? They're not getting worse, they're the same as always."

Dean's lips parted but whatever he was about to say died on his tongue.

"I've been dealing with my broken head for months now," Sam said, calming down, "Every day is the same. It only seems worse to you because you're paying attention."

Dean opened his mouth to protest but Sam held up a hand to stop him.

"I know you watch out for me," Sam insisted, "You do. But with Cas and the Leviathan and all the crap that's been coming our way… I don't blame you for being distracted. There's nothing you can do anyway."

"I'm gonna find you help, Sam," Dean promised. Sam smiled and nodded.

"I know you will."

* * *

Sam had done most of the research before they had arrived in town. There had been a few disappearances in the area for a few decades, there hadn't been one in nearly twenty years. Sam looked up any locals who'd died in that time period. One name stuck out; Jerry Garret Jr. Garret had been a hunter, the normal kind, like a lot of people in the local parts, but he'd also been a reclusive type. He'd died under suspicious circumstances, ruled out by police as a hunting accident.

Sam did a little digging and decided murder had been more likely.

The two of them were heading out to the woods, to check out the hunting cabin where the kids had been found. If they could find anything that connected Garret to the cabin, then they could go salt and burn his bones.

"Our lifestyle sure puts you off hiking in the forest," Dean remarked, kicking a leaf off of his boot.

Sam smirked. Most of their family camping trips had ended in a burning carcass, getting drunk off whiskey at 14 while your dad stitched you up, and a crap load of painkillers. Sam wondered what their dad would say if he were still around.

No doubt he'd be pissed at Sam for starting the apocalypse, screwing a demon, drinking blood… the list could go on. In a way it was a good thing that John Winchester wasn't around to see what his youngest son had turned into. Hell, he'd probably be on a locked ward soon enough, he didn't doubt it.

"So, this cabin doesn't belong to anyone?" Dean asked. Sam blinked out of his thoughts and nodded.

"It's just always been around, so the locals say," Sam said, "I think most people take their hunting trophies back home, the town isn't too far away."

"Well, whoever's slicing and dicing teenagers must own the cabin," Dean said.

The cabin in question was one of those places that really fitted its job description. It wasn't particularly run down or rusty. It looked in good condition, considering. But there was something about the place, the little wooden structure at the top of the hill, shadowed by looming trees. It was cold and dark, that's the feeling the place gave off.

Dean fired up the EMF, which went a little haywire.

"Ghost it is," Dean said as they trudged up the hill, shotguns in hand.

The door creaked open, a smell of damp and dust filled the place. The shoe prints on the floor showed signs of police long gone, the scrape of gurney wheels cut through the cobwebbed floorboards.

They flicked on their flashlights, swinging them around to reveal an old table at the far end, stained brownish-red. It was the hooks that caught Sam's breath. Six hooks dangled from the ceiling, rusting and sharp.

 _Is that comfortable, Sam? I think two hooks through your ribs is enough but… you're a big guy. Better make it four. Try not to scream too much now or it'll be messy…_

Sam was frozen in the doorway. He had one hundred and eighty years' worth of memories he'd give anything to forget. Memories filled with hooks and chains and claws and a white light so strong it burned his eyes out of his skull. Every day.

Lucifer used to like freezing his fingers until they were black, then he'd snap them off one by one.

"Sammy?"

Sam looked up. Dean was at the other end of the cabin, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?" Sam replied.

"Are you gonna help look or are you gonna dawdle over there?"

Sam didn't answer, just got moving. He shuffled around, looking under furniture, in drawers. He stepped on a creaky floorboard. He dropped down and pulled out his knife, working the board out. There was a book inside.

"Dean, look."

Sam stood up, opening the book. Dean came over, standing at his shoulder to look at their find.

"It's a journal," Sam noticed, he squinted to read, Dean held the light for him.

 _The boy was a squawker. Like a pig. Bled like one too. His hair is nice and soft. Pillow stuffing._

Sam grimaced and looked away, the journal suddenly felt a lot heavier and colder. He handed it to Dean who scanned the page, frown deepening as he went. Sam fumbled through his pocket for the notes stashed in there.

"I'll say it again," Dean was saying, "People are crazy."

Sam huffed his agreement, finding the paper he needed. It was a photocopy of a legal document Garret had signed. He held the paper next to the journal.

"Looks the same," Dean said. He slammed the book closed.

"He's our guy," Sam agreed. He shoved the paper back into his pocket, turning to leave with Dean just behind him.

"Let's salt and burn the bitch," Dean crowed, shoving the journal under his arm, "We should light this up too."

"No," Sam said, "Get it to the cops. There're families out there that deserve to know what happened."

Dean nodded and they headed down the hill. It was getting dark. It was later than they'd hoped it would be but if they hurried they could find their way out of the forest. Dean froze, grabbing Sam to stop.

"Listen," Dean whispered. Sam listened; there were the sounds of heavy boots treading lightly, a gun being loaded. The air around them had dropped significantly and Dean whipped out the EMF which let out a shrill note.

"Can you see him?" Sam asked quietly. Dean shook his head. There was a snap of a broken twig and icy laughter.

"Run," Dean ordered, pushing Sam forward. The two of them bounded through the woods. Twigs clawed at Sam's face, trying to catch onto his hair and clothes. He glanced over his shoulder, relieved to find Dean on his tail. He ran harder when he caught sight of the Impala, metal glinting in the early moonlight, and nearly crashed into it.

He tried to let his breath catch up with him, leaning against the hood of the car.

"Let's go find out where he's buried," Sam panted. Dean didn't answer, there was no sound of Dean gasping for breath. Sam turned around, then scanned the whole area, finding himself completely alone.

* * *

He ran faster back to the cabin, but he took nearly twice as long trying to navigate his way through the dark forest. He could feel his hands shaking around his flashlight.

' _I want you to watch this, Sam.' The devil didn't shine that time, he let him keep his eyes. 'I want you to see how beautiful you are inside, how every bit was made for me.' The hooks pulling his eyelids apart were ice cold._

Sam stumbled, a flash of the cage was there and gone in a second. He scrambled back to his feet, willing his legs to go straight. He ran.

 _You squawked,_ a cruel voice in the back of his head reminds him. It's his own. _You squawked for one hundred and eighty years._

… _Like a pig. Bled like one too…_

 _Dean. Dean. Dean._ Sam shouted his brother's name over and over in his head like a mantra, screaming over the sounds of Hell.

"Can you even see where you're going?" Lucifer came up beside him at a leisurely jog, "I'm just saying, there's no point in running when you don't even know where you're going."

Sam set his jaw and ran on, swinging his torch, trying to follow the small line of light.

"If you don't hurry, you're going to find your brother leaking his insides out," the Devil said.

" _Shut up_ ," Sam hissed, coming to a stop. He shone his light around the small clearing he'd come to, trying hard to ignore Lucifer, who was leaning against a tree trunk.

"I can help you," he hummed, flashing Sam a smug look.

"I don't need your help," Sam growled, "You're not even real. Why are you here?"

Lucifer frowned. "Didn't you get the memo? You and I are made for each other. Two sides of the same coin. I'm in you, kiddo, just like I'm meant to be. Sounds a little kinky, huh?"

"Go screw yourself," Sam spat.

The devil chuckled. "Why should I when you're right here?"

Sam turned away, digging his thumb nail into the scar on his palm. Lucifer vanished and Sam trudged deeper into the woods.

It was harder finding the cabin in the dark, especial when the terrain was so uneven. He'd carried his shotgun all the way up the hill but he hadn't had to use it. That made him uneasy, if Garret wasn't coming after him then he was busy doing something else.

Sam didn't waste any time barging into the cabin. There were no lights but Sam could see the glint of metal at the other end, he shot at it, Garret vanished. Sam pushed himself in, feeling a sharp pain building behind his eyes.

"Dean?" Sam called. His brother was hanging from the ceiling, his toes just brushing the floor. "Dean!"

Dean blinked his eyes open and smiled tiredly. "My hero," he mumbled.

"What happened to you?"

"The bastard clocked me," Dean grumbled, "I woke up here. Let me down, would you? The chains on my wrists hurt like a bitch."

Sam nodded, reaching up. He shuddered when his fingers came into contact with the hook and chain. They were ice cold.

"Sammy?"

"Huh?"

"You okay?"

Sam shook his head clear and began to find a way to undo the chains around Dean's wrists. His head was throbbing, images flashed before his eyes, too quick to see but quick enough to know.

"We need to be quick," was all Sam said, "Garret'll be back."

He swallowed hard, feeling extremely nauseous. His hands were shaking.

"…at me. Sam, look at me."

He blinked, looking up at Dean. By the look on his brother's face, he must have spaced out. He could feel it coming; Hell was crashing into him like waves on a rock. It was only a matter of time before the tide came in. He took a deep breath and tried to steady his fingers. They were numb and jittery. He had to free Dean before Garret came back, if he didn't hurry up then he wouldn't be able to save Dean.

"Sammy, look out!" Dean cried.

Sam whirled around just in time to see the ghost in the doorway, then he was flying and crashing into the wall, landing painfully on the blood-stained table. The shotgun was out of his hand, on the other side of the room, and Garret was approaching. Sam was relieved that he passed Dean and went straight for him. Dean was yelling behind them, tugging furiously at the chains.

"You're a squealer," the ghost chuckled, "I can tell."

Things were swimming in and out of focus, blood was coming down the walls, from his hair, on his hands. Garret had the knife again and he was coming towards Sam. Sam fumbled in his pocket, fiddling at the lid as he tossed salt at the ghost, sending it away again.

"Sammy!" Dean was shouting. Sam scrambled back to his feet, swaying a little he grabbed the wall for balance. He went back to Dean, trying to pick the lock on the chain. He was still shaking and his head was pounding. He could hear Dean talking to him but it was like background noise, muffled calls behind the blood rushing in his ears. He was light-headed, dizzy, in pain, trying to ignore the horrors his broken brain was showing him.

If he could free Dean then it would be okay. He just had to save Dean.

Garret came back just as he picked the lock. He didn't have time to remove the chains so Dean was still left hanging as Sam was hurled into the wall again. He barely registered the painful bruises which were no doubt forming on his body. He felt something warm and wet trickle on his upper lip.

Garret was coming at him, having picked the knife up again. Dean was furiously trying to free himself, balancing unstably on his toes.

"I wonder why he took the book back," Satan mused, pointing to where the journal was resting on the other end of the table, "Or why his soul is stuck up here in the woods."

Sam reached out and touched the book. Garret hissed.

"He followed you when you had the book. And he only took Dean when he took five kids last time," Lucifer went on, "I'm just saying, this is kinda obvious."

Sam tossed more salt onto the spirit, giving himself some time. Then he emptied the rest onto the diary, followed by lighter fluid. Garret reappeared just in time to see the book go up in flames, he screamed, burning away to nothing. Sam sighed, panting hard.

"Sam?" Dean called, almost free, "You good?"

Sam good barely nod his head. He was so cold, his head was in agony and his nose hadn't stopped bleeding. Fire flashed before his eyes, screams and laughter.

 _Don't leave me! Adam had cried, Don't leave me alone down here._

 _We're going to have so much fun, kiddo, Satan cooed, I want us to get along._

Sam didn't remember how he'd ended up on the floor but there he was, head dipped, his bloody nose dripping onto his hands. Dean had managed to get himself down and he was at Sam's side, asking him what was wrong.

Sam lurched to the side and threw up.

Then everything was filled with icy fire and bloody agony.

* * *

Sometimes he heard a soft voice, pleading with him, a hand stroking his hair, someone humming _Hey, Jude_.

But mostly he was drowning, having his tongue ripped out so he couldn't cry out for help. Now and then he'd get glimpses of the inside of a cabin, an old baseball cap, he would hear someone pacing, calling his name, coming into his vision.

But then it would all wash away, he would sink back into the Devil's hands.

He came back to with a heavy gasp, feeling like he hadn't taken a breath in days. He was hot and cold, sweat clung to him like a second skin, sticking the thin fabric of the bed sheet to him. He wasn't wearing much, he noticed when he peeled the blanket away with shaking hands. He'd been stripped down to his boxers. A tugging at the back of his hand alerted him to the IV attached there. It took a long while to get himself sitting up, wrapped in the blanket because he decided he was colder than hot.

He was in Rufus' cabin, occupying the only bed there. He noticed the blankets on the couch and the sleeping bag on the floor next to the bed. His stomach coiled, growling protests because it was so empty. He'd lost weight, he realised, ribs actually visible, muscle somewhat diminished. He ran his tongue across his cracked lips and decided he needed water before he could even attempt to let his foggy brain try to figure out what was going on.

He shuffled around so his feet touched the floorboards and pulled out his IV, which wouldn't have been so painful if his hands hadn't been so weak and shaky.

Getting to his feet turned out to be harder than expected. His legs were like rubber, shaking underneath him and threatening to take him down. He used the wall to guide himself the tens steps it should have taken to get to the kitchen. He vaguely remembered that the tap water in the cabin was not drinkable and he just managed to stop himself from sucking it right out of the tap.

He found several bottles of water in the fridge and grabbed the one on the top shelf, he barely had the energy to bend that far, and collapsed onto the nearest chair, not bothering to close the fridge. He gave himself a few moments before attempting the Everest that was removing the bottle's cap.

He managed, after about seven minutes of straining so hard he broke into a sweat. He threw up right after downing the whole bottle in under a minute, chucking up water and bile all over the floor. He lay his head down on the table, feeling way too exhausted to even look for a cloth, let alone clean up the mess. After a long moment of resting his eyes he remembered where he could remember being last, then wondered where his brother was. There was a horrible moment where he thought Garret might have got to him, then he remembered that someone had to have gotten him all the way to Rufus' cabin.

"Sammy?"

Dean was at the door, a bag of groceries in hand. He stared at his little brother, wide-eyed, then the bags were dropped carelessly on the ground and he was striding over to Sam, yanking him into his arms.

Sam rested his head on Dean's chest, enjoying the warmth for a minute, feeling too tired to even open his eyes.

"God… Sam…" Dean sounded suspiciously close to tears, "I wasn't sure if you…"

"I threw up," Sam remembered suddenly. His voice was soft and raspy. Dean shook a little and Sam realised he was laughing, then he pulled away, crouching down to take Sam's face in his hands. Sam blinked lamely at him, a little thrown-off by the open affection.

"How long have you been up?" Dean asked.

"Not long," Sam said, though it could have been hours given that he currently had the mobility of a 90-year-old. Dean got to his feet, grabbing a bottle of water and twisting the cap off with ease, he set it down on the table.

"Slow sips," he said. Sam did as he was told, taking a few small sip before setting it back down.

"What happened?" he asked.

"You don't remember anything?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Would I be asking if I remembered?"

"At least you can still bitch," Dean remarked, "Next we'll test your reflexes."

He took a seat opposite Sam and folded his hands in front of him, the way he usually did when he was serious, like their father had done.

"You've been out for almost two weeks," Dean said, "It took me about a day to get you here, Bobby was here when I arrived. We've been looking out for you since."

"Thanks," Sam muttered, "But what happened to me? Have I just been out?"

"Sometimes," Dean said, "You were in and out. You talked sometimes but we couldn't understand what you were saying. Bobby says it was Enochian. What was it like for you?"

"I don't remember much," Sam said. _It was Hell_.

Dean stared at him for a moment, detecting the lie. "Good," he said, "You were catatonic. It's good to see you up and about again. Bobby'll be back soon. Do you want anything?"

"I'm pretty hungry, actually," Sam said. Dean nodded and got to picking up the abandoned grocery bags, setting them on the counter. He covered Sam's vomit with an old towel and went about cooking something on the hob.

They got on with it. Like they always did. Because they always had work to do. Because the world was so much bigger than just the two of them.

* * *

Next up is Idreamofivan.

Also, I started a new fic if you wanna check it out? Maybe?

It's called From Eden and it will be spectacularly sad. There is a character death but said character will feature throughout. Also, Cas is in it and I haven't really written anything with him yet so that's exciting, huh? Anyway, the plot comes from a post on tumblr which gives the story's premise:

 _As Cain predicted, Sam is killed by Dean's hands under the influence of the Mark of Cain. Dean tries to cope with his actions by visiting Sam in different time periods where he tries be there for his brother at times he felt he was not. Sam never tells Dean about these visits._

There six chapter, I swear. If you read Keep The Empty From His Eyes then you know what I'm talking about.

Anyway, thanks for reading!


	6. The Patchwork Boy

So this prompt is from Idreamofivan:

 _Sam (around 16) is recovering from a wound, complicated with an illness, complicated with Winchester luck. He is almost ok now, has a low grade fever (that tends to spike up when he exerts himself), little aches and pains, maybe even problems breathing once in a while, gets exhausted very easily, but he is "I am fine". But really, he is not, he is better but can relapse any time.  
Being bed ridden, with a strict medicine schedule (plus if there are IVs involved), bored out of his mind and momma bear dean and papa bear John are driving him nuts. He wants to do something, anything desperately but is forced to stay in bed by doctors and his family. John finds a hunt nearby and Sam wants to help at least with the research but he is not allowed. After John and dean are gone he goes through their notes and find out they missed something or made a mistake. Scared for their lives he goes save them. He does but relapses spectacularly while doing so._

If you're familiar with my writing then you know I love to write pre-series, add on some sick/hurt!Sam and I'm in my element.

I warn you: this is long, so make yourself comfortable. Also, there are some gruesome/bloody scenes.

* * *

It was bright when he came to with some semblance of lucidity. He could remember, or he thought he did, waking up multiple times without really knowing what the hell was going on. He thought he could remember Dean, pale and wide-eyed with worry, frantically speaking with words that didn't quite enter Sam's mushy brain.

It took him a while to open his eyes this time around, his lids seemed to be glued together, and when he finally pealed them open everything was bleary and bright. He blinked a few times to clear his vision. The room was an off-white and the sun was streaming through the window, giving everything an odd glow.

His mouth felt thick and dry and he didn't dare swallow because he could already feel the unpleasant lump there. But that seemed to be the worst of it. Overall he was pleasantly numb, feeling a little too light and heavy both at the same time.

He wriggled his fingers and toes, glad they seemed to be functioning, though the tug of an IV in his hand wasn't pleasant. He felt glued to the hospital mattress, even if he'd possessed the energy he wouldn't have been able to tear himself away from it.

He let his brain slowly catch up, it was only setting in now that he had no clue what day it was, let alone what had happened to him. It must have been bad or Dad wouldn't have brought him to hospital. Hospitals were an emergency-only kind of situation, like life-or-death kind of deals.

"Sam, are you awake?" it was a soft voice, warm, but in that overly-sweet kind of way. Sam rolled his head to the side, there was a nurse in pink flowery scrubs on the other side of the bed, doing something or other with the IV bags he noticed were hanging there. He glanced around a little, noticing the zoo animals printed onto the walls.

"Mmmm," was all he could manage. He startled himself a little when his voice came out muffled, ringing a little in his ears, vibrating down his neck. He peered down to his nose, which was covered in plastic along with the rest of the lower half of his face.

Sam could swear things were appearing that weren't there before. The nurse had just popped out of nowhere like a rabbit out of a hat, he was sure of it.

"Goodness, sweetie," the nurse brushed a hand across his forehead and smiled down at him, "You gave everyone a bit of a scare."

"Mmm?" Sam asked, he hoped she might understand the mountain of questions he was trying to ask. The nurse smiled, Kathy, Sam squinted at her nametag, and pulled her stethoscope from around her neck. The metal was cold against his chest and he shuddered at the contact, Kathy made an apologetic _shhh_ and checked him all over, prodding him with various devices.

"I've called the doctor," she was saying, "And she'll be down here any second to see how you're doing and to tell you what's going on."

Kathy had a cup in her hand, which _definitely_ came out of nowhere, and spooned out an ice chip. She gently pulled down the oxygen mask and held it to Sam's lips. Sam opened and gladly accepted it, letting the ice melt on his tongue and cool down his parched mouth. She gave him a few more before setting the cup aside, Sam whined in protest.

"Not too much, honey," She apologised, "You haven't had anything to eat for a while so we don't want you to get sick, okay?"

"M'kay," Sam finally managed, finding it easier to speak when his mouth wasn't so dry. He sighed and let himself sink a little further into the pillows. He was drifting a little when another voice woke him.

"Sam? I'm doctor Day. Can you open your eyes?"

Sam blinked his eyes open and stared up at the doctor. She was fairly young, brown hair secured in a bun. She smiled at him.

"Good," she praised, "Nurse Kathy tells me you've been awake and lucid. I'd like to talk to you, no doubt you're feeling a little disoriented."

"Yeaah," Sam breathed into the mask. He managed to get his eyes open more, making him look a little less like one of the kids that get stoned behind the bleachers at his school.

"Do you know what day it is, Sam?" Doctor Day asked. Sam shook his head.

"It's Wednesday 10th August," she told him. Sam frowned, he'd definitely missed out on a lot. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital," Sam murmured, Doctor Day nodded for him to say more. Sam thought hard about the last hunt he remembered, "Michigan?"

The doctor nodded approvingly. "Very good. Do you remember coming to the hospital?"

Sam searched his mind for a moment then nodded. Doctor Day nodded back, prompting him to go on. He wished she'd stop nodding her head like that, it was making him dizzy.

"I felt sick," he finally said. And he had, God, he'd thought he was dying. Being dragged through the forest by his brother and father with his skin torn up.

"You've been very unwell," the doctor agreed, "But you're getting better. Your fever broke last night and I'm confident you'll be alright, Sam."

Sam smiled, as much as his muscles allowed him to, he had a feeling it looked a little sloppy. Doctor Day smiled back, "I'll let you know what's going on, okay?"

"'Kay," Sam muttered. Trying not to let his eyes droop.

"Do you remember injuring yourself?"

 _Hunt. Wendigo._ "Animal," Sam said.

"That's right," the Doctor said, "You were attacked by an animal. The police suspect it was a bear that attacked you while you were camping with your family."

Sam's eyes widened. "M'dad," he said, he clumsily tried to grasp the doctor's arm, "Deaan… where're they?"

"They're in the waiting room," she said, placing a cold hand on his in a show of comfort, "They've hardly left the hospital. I'll let them come in to see you once I've caught you up on your situation. No doubt you want to know why exactly you're in the hospital."

Sam nodded, he really did. The fuzziness of his head was irritating.

"Your brother and father brought you in on Saturday evening, you have sixty-nine stitches in your chest. You developed a nasty infection, due to the fact it took several hours for your family to get you here, and a severe bout of pneumonia on top of that. Things were complicated for you, given your asthma. You've had a fever for several days, which was nearly fatal, you had a seizure."

Sam blinked at her.

"Your fever was too high," She explained, "We were worried it wouldn't come down, but the antibiotics kicked in and your fever broke yesterday. The pneumonia is better but I'm keeping you on the oxygen, I'm sure you'll agree with me there."

"M'brother," Sam croaked, "M'Dad."

Doctor Day nodded and smiled kindly. "I'll have Kathy go fetch them," She said, turning to the nurse who hurried off, "I'd like to check your breathing in the meantime."

She checked the chart at the end of the bed, then checked his breathing with her icy stethoscope. She carefully removed the oxygen mask and replaced it with a nasal cannula, which really felt weird. She was doing some other things but Sam wasn't really paying attention, he was really tired.

"When's he gonna wake up?" Someone's voice – Dean's – whined. Sam found himself coming back to consciousness, someone was stroking his hair, not Kathy, the hand was too large, not soft at all.

"Shhh. We've only been in here for ten minutes," That was their dad, he sounded oddly gentle, "He needs his rest."

"What he needs is to open his eyes and show me he's alright," Dean argued, "I haven't seen the kid conscious in days. Enough sleeping already, Sammy."

The words were impatient but the tone was soft, worried. Someone took his hand in theirs and squeezed.

"What happened..." Sam took a deep breath, realising how much his chest did not feel comfortable, the skin was prickling and his lungs felt rough, "… to 'No chick-flick… moments'."

"Sam?" Dean gasped, squeezing his hand tighter. Sam cracked an eye open and gave him half a grin. "Jesus, kid! Warn a guy, would ya?"

"Hey…" Sam breathed, opening his other eye. His dad was on his other side, sitting in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs, he was still stroking Sam's hair, a gesture Sam wasn't used to, it was nice. Suddenly, Dean was looming over him.

"Don't ever do that again!" he said, no anger, just worry.

"M'sorry," Sam answered with a sigh.

"Don't apologise for getting sick!" Dean retorted, deadly serious. Sam frowned, extremely unsure what he was meant to do. John put out his free hand, pushing Dean back into his seat.

"I think he's a little drugged to the gills right now, Dean," John said quietly, "You can tear him a new one when he's sobered up."

"M'not drunk," Sam insisted, "I swear, dad."

Dean snorted, but Sam didn't get what was so funny. "They giving you the good stuff?" Dean asked, still laughing. John joined in which only caused Sam to frown harder, feeling very out of the loop.

"Stop pickin' on me," Sam moaned, "S'not fair…"

The two of them chuckled harder, obviously not understanding how serious Sam was being. "Alright, alright," John said, he wasn't laughing anymore, "Leave him alone, Dean."

"Aw, Sammy," Dean said, rubbing his thumb over Sam's knuckle, "I'm not laughing at you."

Sam frowned at their worried gazes, then realised he was crying. John tossed Dean a tissue from a box on the bedside table and Dean dabbed the tears away. He wasn't crying because they were laughing, not really, but the blank spots in his memory, the pain in his chest, and the general weakness that seemed to cling to his bones was extremely frustrating, and crying was all his foggy head could do about it.

There was more hair stoking, which went on for a while, even after Sam had fallen back to sleep.

* * *

The next morning Sam woke up to the sound of John and Dean arguing in hushed voices.

"That is so not fair, Dad," Dean whined, there was the sound of something being slapped down carefully on a table.

"You're only saying that because you're losing," John scoffed. Sam frowned and peeped an eye open. It was bright, a golden glow coming through the window. John and Dean were sitting at a table by the window, each with a set of cards in their hand.

Dean was shaking his head, shuffling in his chair as he stared hopelessly at the cards in his hand. John had an extremely smug look on his face, his eyes flickered briefly over to Sam, like a habit, barely noticing that Sam was staring back. He looked back over again, face cracking into a smile when he noticed Sam was awake.

"Sammy," he said. Dean jumped in his seat, twisting around, already coming over to the bedside.

"You awake for real now, kiddo?" he asked.

Sam swallowed and nodded. "I think so," he said, trying to push himself up a little. He hissed in pain as his chest flared up, the skin pulling a little. Dean gently paused him.

"Hold on," he said, carefully helping Sam forward to plump the pillows, sitting him back so he was upright. "How're you doing?"

"Tired," Sam replied, "Sore, a little fuzzy."

"Dizzy?" John asked.

Sam shook his head. "Confused, I guess. What exactly happened?"

Dean's eyes flickered away for a second. He looked back to Sam, all seriousness. "What do you remember?"

"Um…" Sam concentrated for a second, "We were hunting a Wendigo."

Dean nodded.

"It got me," Sam went on, "Took me back to its cave. I woke up hanging from the ceiling… I think I passed out because you were suddenly there. It came back and it nearly got me. I think I passed out again, we were in the woods, you were dragging me, my chest hurt."

Sam looked down to where his torso was wrapped in bandages.

"We thought we'd lost you," Dean said, "Then we found you in the cave but the son of a bitch didn't want you going anywhere and swiped you. Dad tried to flare the bitch up but it ran off. We got you out of there but the car was a long way away and we had to walk."

Dean stopped and looked down at his hands. John stepped forward.

"You were going into shock, bleeding," he said, "You had trouble breathing, your inhaler worked for a while but then infection set in and you were burning up. It took us five hours to get back to the car in the dark, then another hour to drive to the hospital."

"God," Dean breathed out, "I thought you were gonna die."

"Sorry," Sam whispered. Dean grabbed his wrist tightly.

"Don't you apologise," he said, "You were on my watch and you got hurt. This is on me."

"Dean…" Sam sighed.

"I mean it," Dean insisted, shaking his head, "This is on me."

Sam snorted, taking Dean by surprise. "If this is anyone's fault, you can blame the Wendigo," Sam said, "It was the one that tried to eat me, not you."

Dean stared at him open-mouthed for a second. "Are you seriously making a joke about this?" he asked, annoyed.

Sam couldn't help laughing a little. Dean scowled.

"You're such a mother-hen," Sam giggled, trying hard not to let his chest move too much, a difficult task.

"Oh yeah?" Dean argued, "And you're high."

"Am not!" Sam insisted, "If I were high on pain meds then I wouldn't be in this much pain."

Dean's face completely changed. "You're in pain?" he asked, not waiting for an answer, "Why didn't you say anything? Is it your chest? Do we need to get the nurse?"

"Mother-hen," Sam smirked, laughter dying down. He relaxed back into the pillows and smiled at his brother, "I mean it though, this isn't your fault."

Dean didn't even look at him.

" _Dean_ ," Sam moaned, "Don't do this to yourself. I'm okay, I'll be fine, the doctor said so."

"You didn't see it," Dean grumbled, "You didn't see how bad you were."

Before Sam could make a retort the door opened and the same nurse Sam remembered from before, Kathy, came into the room with an orderly who was carrying a tray.

"Good morning, Sam," Kathy said brightly, "It's good to see you awake again. How are you feeling?"

She went over to check the IV bags, monitors, his breathing and pulse.

"I'm okay," Sam answered, voice tinged a little painfully.

Kathy frowned at him as she scribbled down on his chart. "You don't have to lie, Sam," she said.

"My chest hurts a little," Sam admitted, Kathy's eyebrow raised and Sam sighed, "Fine. It hurts a lot."

"Okay then," she said, smiling, "I'm going to check your stitches, okay, sweetie?"

Sam nodded and allowed her to carefully unwrap his bandages, with a little help from Dean who helped sit Sam up. The whole process was uncomfortable and more painful than he'd have liked to admit. He stared down in morbid fascination at the numerous stitches criss-crossed along his chest. It reminded him of the old Frankenstein movies Dean used to make him watch when they were younger, the ones that had scared the crap out of him.

Kathy gently prodded with gloved fingers, then cleaned the wounds. The whole thing was red and irritated-looking, the look on his dad's and Dean's faces told him it was a vast improvement. He could vaguely remember the hot wet of his own blood seeping out. And the pain, God, it had been like fire.

"Looking good," Kathy praised, as if Sam were fully responsibly, "Now, we're going to have you eat some breakfast."

The orderly placed the tray on the bed table.

"It's mostly mild foods," Kathy explained, "You haven't eaten in a couple of days so you need to go slow, throwing up is the last thing you need right now."

Sam nodded in agreement, feeling the twinge in his ragged chest. He stared down at the breakfast tray; a banana, a small bowl of grey-looking oatmeal and a glass of watered-down orange juice.

"Try to eat as much as you can," Kathy suggested, "You need the energy. Your medication is going through the IV right now so you should start to feel the pain go away soon, you'll be sleepy too."

Sam unenthusiastically picked up the spoon, mostly because everyone was staring at him, and plonked it into the bowl.

"You're doing great," the nurse said, "You'll talk to Doctor Day a little more about what's next later today. In the meantime, take it easy, honey."

She headed back out with the orderly and Sam took a slow bite of the oatmeal under his brother's and father's expectant gazes. He managed four spoonfuls and half of the banana, mostly an effort made so his brother wouldn't bitch, before he fell asleep midway through a conversation.

Doctor Day turned up later in the day when Sam and Dean were playing Go Fish. She checked his chart, and a bunch of other things Sam was too tired to pay much attention to. She sat at the edge of his bed and smiled at him.

"Things are really improving," she said, "The infection has cleared up, though you're likely to feel a little worn out. Your body is just trying to preserve energy, it's spent a lot on fighting the infection and the pneumonia. I'm keeping you on oxygen to be safe, I notice you still wheeze a little and I don't want to take any chances considering that you're asthmatic."

"When will he be ready to come home?" John asked.

"I think he should stay for a few more days," Doctor Day said, "He's still at risk for getting ill again if he isn't careful, I want to make sure he's well enough to walk out of here on his own steam. I think you need a couple more days of bed rest before we work on you moving around a bit. You'll tire easily, Sam, so don't get too frustrated if you find yourself out of energy before you reach the end of the hall."

Sam groaned and the doctor patted his arm sympathetically.

"I know you don't want to be stuck in this bed all day but that's how it is for now," she explained, "If we take things slow you'll be out of here much quicker."

Sam nodded solemnly, feeling extremely frustrated and useless and, most of all, tired. The doctor left after discussing something in private with their father. Dean and Sam went back to their game of Go Fish, which was never finished because Sam fell asleep.

* * *

A couple of days later, after most hours spent watching daytime TV, playing cards, listening to Dean talk in full detail about his sexual escapades, and sleeping, Sam was ready for a walk. It was down the hall, not much, and everyone was making a big deal about it. John had a wheelchair ready, Kathy was there, and Dean was fretting, wrapping a Sam in a hospital robe. Sam ignored the fuss, ready to get on his feet.

His legs were wobbly underneath him and the floor was cold on his feet, but Sam was determined and he took a step, his grip on the IV pole tightened when he realised how difficult it was going to be.

"Sammy?"

"I'm fine," Sam almost snapped, he took another step. With a lot of effort, he made it to the door, trying hard to ignore the hovering figures. He was already starting to feel out of breath by the time he made it halfway to the vending machine down the hall. The was where he had to go, to the vending machine and back, if he was able.

Well, damn it if Sam wasn't going to succeed. But succeeding was growing more and more distant the closer he got to the machine. He was breaking out into a sweat and his felt like his feet would go out from under him any second.

"Sammy…" John said.

Sam shook his head. "I can do it," he said through gritted teeth, "I'm nearly there."

"You've done well, Sam," Kathy said, "You don't need to go all the way if you can't do it right now."

Sam didn't answer her, just pushed on, determined to make it. His legs were shaking, but he forced them to hold him up. Making it to the vending machine, Sam let himself sigh with relief, leaning against it, letting his breath catch up with him, panting a fog on the glass.

"Good job, Sam," Kathy praised, "We'll wheel you back to bed now, let you rest."

"No," Sam protested, "I can walk back."

"No you can't," Dean groaned, "Get in the wheelchair."

"I can make it," Sam panted, already trying to head back on his own two feet.

"Damn it, Sam," Dean growled, blocking his path, "Get in the freaking wheelchair or I'll put you there myself."

Sam glared at him before relenting, though he wouldn't let Dean help him into the wheelchair. John steered him back to his room and he and Kathy got him into bed. He sank into the pillows, still trying to catch his breath.

"Don't worry about it, Sam," Kathy assured, "You did better than anyone expected. You don't have to be 100% straight away. If we keep at it then you'll be running marathons in no time," she winked and draped the blanket over him, "Just don't over-do it, okay?"

She slipped her hand across his forehead. "You're a little warm," she said, quickly adding at Dean's worried expression, "Not a fever. He's just pushed himself a little too hard."

She got him a glass of water, which Sam tried not to gulp down, before leaving.

"You're such a dumbass," Dean chided, "Seriously. What the hell was that?"

"I could've done it," Sam protested, "If you'd just_"

"Yeah, that wasn't going to happen," Dean said smugly, "You were about the kiss the floor any second."

"Was not," Sam yawned.

"Sure," Dean scoffed, taking a seat beside the bed, "Just go to sleep Sammy."

"No," Sam argued, eyes already slipping shut.

After another couple of days, and an extended stay in the hospital (to be safe, said doctor Day), Sam was walking to the vending machine and back, barely breaking a sweat. It was way harder than it needed to be but Kathy had helped him exercise from his bed and walk to the bathroom and back. Dean was still hovering, but Sam could tell something was going on. Dean and John kept sharing looks, silent conversations, leaving more often to talk about whatever.

"What're you two up to?" Sam demanded over another game of Go Fish. Dean and John looked up in surprise. Sam sighed, "I know you two are talking about something. Just tell me what it is."

"Sammy," Dean said, "We aren't _up to_ anything, alright? We're just talking about the case."

"The case?" Sam clarified, "You mean the one that…"

 _The one that got me landed on death's door._

"The Wendigo is still out there," John explained, "We need to take it out before anyone else gets hurt."

"When are we going?" Sam asked quickly

Dean groaned and slumped dramatically in his chair. "Are you kidding me?" he asked, "You're not going anywhere."

"But you need me there," Sam insisted, not sure exactly why, he added lamely, "You can't take on a Wendigo with just _two_ people."

"Don't worry about it, Sam," John patted his knee, "We'll be fine. We know where the lair is so we have an advantage."

"But you can't just go," Sam said desperately, "What if you…"

 _Die. Leave me alone here._

"We'll be back," Dean said, "I promise. Besides, you're way too sick to even make it to the car, let alone hike through the woods."

"It only took so long last time because we didn't know where we were going," Sam defended.

"Yeah," John snorted, "Five hours of wandering in circles before we found the car. We're going early morning, so we'll have plenty of daylight. We should be able to get to the cave in under two hours."

"Let me research, at least," Sam begged.

John chortled. "You already researched for the case, kiddo. There's nothing to do but take the thing down."

"But…" Sam paused. What was he supposed to say? That he had a horrible feeling about this? That something wasn't right? What was he? A freaking psychic?

"But nothing," Dean ruffled his hair, Sam batted his hand away, "You stay in bed, rest up, and we go fry a Wendigo. We'll be back before you know it.

Sam gulped and nodded. There was no point in arguing. Since when did a _feeling_ actually mean anything in their family. Sam felt strange, like he was forgetting something important.

"We're not risking you getting sick again," John said clearly, "We'll keep our cells on us, call us any time."

"There's no signal out there," Sam groused.

"We'll take the radio," Dean suggested, shrugging, "Just shut up and rest, bitch!"

He leaned over and ruffled his hair again. Sam didn't even have the enthusiasm to roll his eyes or mutter 'jerk'. He just picked up his cards.

"Do you have any twos?" he asked quietly.

* * *

His dad and brother left a little before dinner when a nurse came in to shoo them away once visiting hours were over. Sam barely ate, it wasn't the taste that put him off, it was the coiling anxiety that had settled in his stomach, telling him something bad was going to happen. He tossed and turned in bed once the lights had been turned off, finding it very hard to get comfortable. Despite the exhaustion he'd been suffering, he could not fall asleep.

He looked over at the clock. 1.17am.

Sam rolled over onto his side, moving carefully to avoid irritating his stitches. He closed his eyes and tried to force his mind to go blank, a difficult task when you put so much effort in. Eventually, the medication must have kicked in because Sam drifted off.

 _His arms hurt, and his wrists, and his everything._

 _It was dark, and cold._

 _He could smell rotting, he could hear crying._

 _He couldn't open his eyes, he wouldn't._

 _Crunching, growling, a huff of hot breath._

 _A large body brushing past him._

 _And another._

 _Two of them._

 _Someone screaming._

 _Gurgling._

 _Silence._

 _Teeth tearing, jaws snapping._

 _Hot tears down his cheeks._

Sam awoke with a gasp. His chest was heaving and his hands were shaky as he tried to brush his damp hair from his sweaty forehead. He felt like he was going to be sick.

There were two Wendigos. And his brother and father had no idea. Since when did Wendigos co-own caves? Sam shook his head, wiped the grit from his eyes and swung his legs off the bed. It was still dark in his room, but he could see a soft light in the hall.

He glanced around. His clothes, the ones that hadn't been covered in blood and some fresh ones Dean had collected for him, and his back pack were in the cupboard by his bed. But his cell had been smashed to bits in the woods days ago. He had the radio his brother and dad had left him. After a few minutes of toggling with it, trying to get through to them, he gave up.

If he could just make a phone call.

Using his IV pole for support, he made his way to the door and out into the corridor.

It was close to empty so late at night. A glimpse at the clock above the nurse's station told him it was 3.46am. He hurried over to the desk as best he could, moving at a regular pace now, rather than shuffling along like he had before. The woman behind it was one of the nurses Sam had tried to avoid during his stay, she was the kind that took no nonsense; middle-aged, bossy, hard-working. Rules were rules. She peered up at him and raised an eyebrow.

"What are you doing out of bed?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I need to make a call," Sam said breathlessly, "It's urgent."

"I think it can wait until the morning," she said, "Get back to bed."

" _Please,"_ Sam begged, "This is really important. I need to call my dad."

"You'll see him tomorrow when visiting hours begin," she replied, looking less than pleased that he hadn't already done what she'd told him to, "Besides, it's almost 4am. Your daddy won't be happy about you calling this late."

Sam groaned. "God… it's just a freaking phone call!"

The nurse's lips pursed and Sam wouldn't deny that a chill of fear crept through him. He dropped his head, not daring to look her in the eye.

"Don't you sass me," she scolded, "You get to bed now. Do I need to take you there myself?"

He was getting desperate and Sam glared at her for a moment, the two of them staring each other down. "No, ma'am," Sam finally said, heading back to his room. He could feel the nurse's eyes on his back the whole way. He dropped onto the edge of his bed and buried his face in his hands, desperately trying to stop any tears from falling.

He needed a phone.

Right now.

Sam peered out into the hallway again. Nurse Drill-sergeant was still at her station, scribbling something down and sorting files. He slipped back into his room when she looked up. He stayed frozen by the door, waiting to see if she would come over. After a minute or so he peeked into the hallway again, she hadn't moved.

Sam quickly scanned the area, he needed to distract her so he could use the phone. Fire alarm? Too risky… this was a hospital after all. Fake page call? If only he had a pager… Kathy. Sam hopped back into bed, making sure the IV pole was back where it had been before and pressed the call button.

Kathy appeared a few minutes later, flicking on the light.

"Sam, are you okay?" She asked, coming over to place a hand on his forehead.

Sam took a long deliberate swallow. "I think m'gonna throw up," he moaned, looking as pitiful as possible. Kathy frowned sympathetically.

"I'll get you a bedpan," she said and rounded the bed to the cupboard there, bending down to rummage through it. Sam quickly unclipped her pager from her waistband and shoved it under his pillow. Kathy popped back up and placed the pan on his lap, she ran a hand over his head again.

"You're not warm," she said, "When did you start feeling sick?"

"Just before," Sam said, he coughed, "Can I have some water?"

"Of course, sweetie," Kathy said, smiling, "I'll be right back."

As soon as she was gone, Sam grabbed the pager from under his pillow. He stared at it dumbly. He had no clue how to use it, jabbing at the buttons was all he could do. Did pagers even send messages? If they did it would take longer than he had to figure out how. Hearing footsteps nearby he dropped the gadget on the floor by the bed and leaned back over the bedpan.

"Here you go," she handed him the cup of water and Sam took tentative sips. Kathy watched him tentatively and waited for him to finish. He gave her back the cup and lay back into the pillows.

"Doctor Day isn't on call right now but I could get one of the other doctors to have a look at you," Kathy suggested, "We need to make sure the infection isn't making a comeback."

"Don't," Sam blurted, he cleared his throat, "I mean, I feel better now, thanks. It must've been a passing thing. I'd like to go back to sleep now."

Kathy's eyes narrowed a little but she nodded and smiled. "Okay, then," she said, "I'll let you get to bed then."

She was almost out the door when Sam called to her. "I think you dropped your, uh, thingy," he told her, pointing to the pager on the floor by the bed. Kathy grabbed it up and smiled gratefully at him.

"Thanks, honey," she said, "Good night."

"'night," Sam returned, she closed the door and he waited until the sound of her footsteps were gone before he climbed back out of bed and grabbed his backpack from the bedside cupboard. He unzipped it and emptied the contents onto the mattress.

His knife was nowhere in sight; no doubt Dad or Dean had hidden that from the nurses, but his lock pick set was still safely tucked away in the back pocket, as well as a pack of gum, a map of the forest, a box of matches, an empty water bottle and a tightly bundled up anorak.

If he couldn't make contact with his father and brother in the hospital then he would have to find a way to do so outside of the hospital. Maybe they hadn't even left the motel yet, he could catch them if he hurried.

He carefully pulled on his clean pair of jeans to avoid irritating his stitches, tucking the hospital gown into the waistband, he didn't want to find out how much it would hurt attempting to take it off. He tore away the tape on the back of his hand and pulled out the IV, none too gently, resulting in a bubble of blood which he wiped away on the hospital gown. He slipped into the anorak and zipped it up, then pulled his shoes onto his bare feet seeing as his couldn't find any socks.

By the end of it he was feeling a little shaky and had to sit on the edge of the bed for a moment as he returned his possessions to his bag. He took a deep breath and looped the strap over his shoulder, getting to his feet. He was a little wobbly on his way to the door since it was the first time he'd walked without any support from the IV pole. Sam cracked open the door; the nurse at the desk was still writing, her attention was elsewhere but he had no doubt she would spot him in an instant. There was a cart sitting a small distance away, big enough to hide a sixteen-year-old boy.

Sam slowly got to his hands and feet, trying hard to ignore his sore chest, and slipped out the room, leaving himself the smallest crack. He gently pushed it closed once he was out and flashed a glance at the nurse, who was still distracted. He crawled quickly on his hands and feet over to the cart, which was filled with medical supplies. He needed to be quick, someone would be back for it.

He shuffled along, pulling the cart with him until he reached the corner, he crawled around into the new corridor, the one with the vending machine, and clambered to his feet, moving as quickly as he could towards the elevators.

Sam let a small crowd swallow him up as they all got into the elevator, his heart was pounding, checking each face to see if they might recognise him. None of them paid him any attention. He pulled up his hood, to be safe, and felt a wash of relief as the doors closed, the elevator moved down.

It was oddly simple to smuggle himself out of the hospital, the difficult part was what he was supposed to do once he reached the parking lot. He didn't have any change for the phone box, and he didn't have any means of transport. Hitchhiking was his only option, but he'd feel much more comfortable with that if he had some protection, especially in the condition he was in.

He didn't have much choice.

Sam made his way to the road outside the hospital parking lot and stuck his thumb out. After quite a few cars went by he realised he ought to pull his hood down, people were more likely to take a baby-faced teen than a psycho that doesn't even show their face.

It was a truck that pulled up, an old man with thick white hair and a grey beard leaned out of the driver's window.

"You alright, kid?" he asked.

Sam smiled. "I was looking for a lift to Great Oaks Motel."

The man raised his eyebrow. "Do your parents know you're asking strangers for lifts to motels?"

"My family's staying there," Sam explained, "I lost my wallet so I can't take the bus, and my cell's dead."

"You realise it's around 4am?" the man pointed out.

"I've been wandering around for a while," Sam shrugged, "Can I get a ride?"

The man looked Sam up and down, frowning, then nodded. "I can't leave you out here," he said, "Hop in."

Sam hurried to the passenger's side and hoisted himself up, stopping when pain lanced down his chest. He shut his eyes and grunted through clenched teeth.

"Son?" the man called. Sam opened his eyes and saw the man looking at him, concerned.

"I'm okay," Sam gasped, settling himself into the seat. He didn't put on the seat belt, he just needed to lie back a little. The truck still hadn't moved.

"Now, I see I'm picking you up outside a hospital," the man said, "And you look to be in pain. You better tell me what's going on or I'll drive you back there."

"Please," Sam begged, "Please don't. I'll go back, I promise, but I need to find my brother and dad. They're in trouble and I need to talk to them."

"You know their number?" the driver asked, "I have a phone here."

He handed Sam a large, brick-like cell and smiled at him kindly. Sam smiled back gratefully and began to punch in his dad's number.

" _This is John Winchester; you should not have this number…_ "

Sam bit the inside of his cheek and dialled Dean.

" _This is Dean's first cell, so I guess this is Sammy, well, I'm not here, bitch. Call dad._ "

He dropped the phone onto his lap, groaning in frustration. The man cleared his throat and Sam handed it back with an apology.

"They're not answering," he said glumly.

"They're probably asleep," the man offered. Sam shook his head.

"I _need_ to find them," he urged. The truck driver eyed him for a long moment before turning the keys in the ignition with a sigh.

"Great Oaks Motel, was it?" he asked. Sam nodded and they set off down the road.

The motel was quiet, only the neon sign blared out into the night, the rest was dark and sleepy. Even the road beside, busy by day, only saw the occasional truck making its way. The man pulled his vehicle into the lot and parked.

"Will you be okay, son?" he asked, voice heavy with the regional accent. Sam nodded with a small smile.

"Yes, sir," he replied, "I'm very grateful. Thank you… I didn't get your name."

"Dale," he gave Sam a toothy grin, "And you?"

"Sam."

"It was nice to meet you, Sam," Dale said, "Look after yourself, alright?"

"I will, sir," Sam answered as he made his slow descent from the truck's cab. Dale watched him, brow furrowed. He halted Sam from shutting the door with a raised hand. He leaned over into the glove box and found a pen and paper, he scribbled something on it and handed it to Sam.

"That's my home number," Dale explained, "If you're in need of help, be sure to call."

Sam paused. "I can't… I'll be fine, sir."

"Kid, you're sweating like a whore in a church," Dale scoffed, "I picked you up at the hospital and you've been wincing in pain ever since, and you're whiter than my wife's meringue."

He waggled an eyebrow at Sam. "I'm just saying," he continued, "Is that if you're in trouble, my wife and I have a spare bed and plenty food to spare. If you need it."

Sam gripped the note tighter and smiled. "Thank you, sir. I'm very grateful."

He sent the old man a final nod before pushing the truck door closed. He stepped back and watched as the truck rolled reluctantly out of the parking lot and onto the road. Sam didn't wait to see once the truck was gone, he hurried over to his motel room door and banged on it. No one answered.

"Dad, Dean?" he called.

It was silent. Sam turned and scanned the parking lot; his dad's black truck was gone; the Impala was left untouched.

"Damn it!" Sam cursed, he dropped his backpack from his shoulder and rifled around for his lock pick set. He tried to hurry once he noticed neighbouring lights were flicking on, no doubt woken by the noise. His fingers were a little shaky and slick with sweat, he wiped them down on his jeans and went back to work. Finally, he heard a _click_ and pushed the door open, slipping inside and shutting it behind him.

He flipped the light switch. One bed was unmade, most likely Dean's, where the other was only disturbed by the scattered papers which lay on the blankets. Sam approached, glancing at his father's research of their current case. He quickly scanned it, finding no mention of more than one monster.

Sam grabbed the motel telephone, trying to reach his brother and father again. He kicked a chair in frustration when he received the dame answer as before. A sudden idea came to him and he quickly dialled a number he hadn't used in years. There was no answer the first time, but Sam was sure he'd pick up eventually, so he rang two more times.

" _Who the hell is this and why are you ringing so late?_ " A familiar gruff voice demanded.

"Bobby!" Sam sighed in relief.

There was a split second on no answer and Sam feared he'd hang up. " _Sam? Is that you?_ "

"Yeah, it's me."

" _Are you okay? What's wrong? Tell me where you are and I'll leave right away._ "

"Has my dad spoken to you recently?" Sam quickly asked.

" _You know he hasn't, Sam, not in a long time,"_ Bobby answered, there was worry creeping into his voice, " _What's going on?"_

"Nothing… never mind," Sam sighed, dropping onto the edge of one of the beds, "I don't know why I called." He paused for a moment. "Bobby, do Wendigos ever come in pairs?"

" _What are you on about?_ " Bobby asked, " _Wendigos are rare, you don't often find one._ "

"I need to know, Bobby," Sam demanded, "Dad and Dean are in trouble. They've gone to hunt down one but they don't know that there're two of them."

" _How do you know there are two?_ " Bobby asked, " _Where's your daddy?"_

Sam took a breath. "I saw them both when they had me in their cave," Sam said slowly, there was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, "I may or may not have busted myself out of hospital to save their sorry asses."

" _How bad was it, Sam?"_ Bobby growled.

"Bobby…"

" _How sick were you?"_

Sam sighed. "It was pretty bad… might've been piercing the vale a bit. But I'm okay now."

" _Sam, you stay put, okay?"_ Bobby ordered, _"Don't you dare go after them. I'm coming to you. I can send the nearest hunter your way. Just do not go after them, you hear?"_

"There's no time, Bobby," Sam stressed, "They've already left. I have to do something."

" _And you have,"_ Bobby told him, _"You've asked for help. There's not much you can do. Stay put, alright?"_

Sam sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "I'm sorry, Bobby."

He hung up.

* * *

Dean was going to kill him. No, Dean was going to _destroy_ him.

That is if Dean wasn't dead already.

Sam shook the thought from his head, focusing on the road, ignoring where the wires were pulled out and hot-wired. Of course, Dean would take his keys with him. Dean was just going to have to deal with the fact that Sam might have stolen his car. To save _Dean's_ life. He was just going to have to get over it.

It was dark, a deep blue with hues of purple streaking in, heralding the sun. The further he drove from civilisation the brighter the stars lit up the sky. It was beautiful, like the nights he and Dean would drive out to nowhere and stare up, when Dad was away. There weren't many other cars on the road, just the occasional truck making its night shift.

He saw a sign pointing him towards the same national park he'd been shredded in only a few days earlier. It was a longer drive than it should have been. It felt that way to Sam, the way his aching chest restricted him from moving much, his arms moved tentatively to switch gears as he turned into the park's parking lot. Which was barred shut. His dad's truck was parked next to the gate.

He brought the car to stop and climbed out slowly, not wanting to aggravate his stitches any more. The gate was locked and there was a sign hanging from the bars:

 _Park closed until further notice due to wild animal attack._

Sam snorted. It was a little embarrassing that the entire park had been closed because of him. He turned away and headed over to the large black truck, peering inside. It was locked, including the weapon's trunk. It was a good thing he'd stocked up at the motel.

He grabbed his bag and turned on his flashlight. Dean and Dad had probably climbed over the fence, there was no doubt that Sam would not be capable of that. He was just going to have to break it open. He dug a pair of wire clippers from his bag and attempted to remove the chain. The strain of it got his chest flaring up in an instant and he had to resort to making his very slow way over the fence. A task that took about ten minutes. Once over, he trudged off into the trees.

* * *

Sam had a strange talent for direction. Honestly, he had an insanely good memory, 'an encyclopaedia of weird' Dean would call him. He tends to remember almost everything he reads, and everywhere they've been. Despite having been dragged there, Sam knows where the Wendigos' lair is.

Despite this, he tracked his brother and father, hoping he might catch up with them. Dean was a better tracker, and while Sam could figure out where it's more likely they've been, he had no clue how long ago they were there.

The weather was bitter. The sun was rising, turning the sky to pink and blue, but the clouds were still grey and spitting icy rain down to the earth. Sam had made sure to wrap up warmer before he'd set off, but the jumper and hat and extra pair of socks did nothing to keep him from the frigid weather. He was nauseous, his chest was throbbing, his skin was frozen and slick with sweat. He trudged on.

He realised he didn't need to look for his family anymore once he, literally, stumbled upon their things. He tripped on a bag strap and fell straight into the mud, his hands softened his fall, still, he was sure a stitch tore. He clambered back to his feet and looked around; his brother and father's bags were abandoned on the forest floor.

He rummaged through them, finding whatever extra supplies he could find; another flare gun, a pocket knife and a bottle of water, which he downed so fast he almost chucked it back up straight away. He headed off deeper into the woods, to the caves, to the Wendigos, to his family.

The journey became rocky, the ground was flat, but his vision was swaying. His hands were shaking and his head was pounding. He gritted his teeth and went on, he had to find his family first. His bones were weary, practically begging him to stop. He couldn't. He knew that if he stopped then he wouldn't get up again, and likely freeze to death.

The cave was as dark and deep and daunting as before. Maybe even more so, what he would find inside terrified him more than anything. He took a soft, half-stumbling step inside, flare gun and torch in hand, and walked.

There were several rocky passages, winding into nothingness. Everything was silent except for the frequent _drip drip drip_ of the showering rain outside. Sam clung to the cave wall, it was as icy as his own skin. He was almost certain he'd throw up as his dim surroundings tilted around him like a boat on the ocean.

Colliding with something wet, cold and frigid sent him to the floor, the rock jolting through his bones, bruising his skin. He flicked his light up; hanging from the ceiling was a person, unrecognisable as such. The skin was missing, as was most of the meat, bone shone through with sinew clinging to it.

Sam emptied his stomach contents painfully, tearing another stitch. He could feel his shirt clinging to the seeping blood. He ended up crawling on his hands and knees, unable to get to his feet because his legs were shaking so badly. He navigated his way through the hanging bodies, desperate not to look, though he had no choice. He found a park ranger, still alive and terrified.

"Help me," he begged, "You have to help me, please, help me."

Sam pulled himself up and clamped a sweaty hand over the man's mouth. The ranger nodded, understanding, and remained silent as Sam sawed away the rope around his wrists.

"Where are they?" Sam asked, voice as quiet as he could make it in the echoing cavern, "The monsters?"

"They're still in here," the man whispered fearfully. Sam clamped a hand on his shoulder, out of poor balance rather than comfort. The man put an arm around him and held him upright, beginning to steer them to the exit.

"No," Sam protested, "My family is here."

The ranger was shaking with fear, but he nodded and stopped, gripping Sam tighter. Sam blinked his eyes closed when his vision swam out of focus for a moment.

"You okay?" the man asked, worried.

"M'fine," Sam's voice slurred, "We need t'find m'brother."

He slapped the torch into the man's hand, even if his was shaking he would be steadier than Sam. He also fumbled for the second flare gun and hands it to the ranger, who accepted it without question.

"If you see one," Sam breathed out heavily, because his chest was tightening up, "Shoot. Don't miss."

The ranger nodded shakily and they step forward, though something had latched onto Sam's ankle and he was yanked down to the ground, hitting it painfully enough for him to scream, no doubt the stitching on his chest is a mess. He was dragged, the rocky ground scraped his skin, he screamed harder, sure he was being torn apart.

There was a sudden blaze, lighting up the cavern, the ragged bodies, burning the Wendigo. The ranger was stood ahead with the flare gun held out shakily, the barrel was smoking a little. He seemed to unfreeze himself as he ran over to pull Sam away from the burning Wendigo corpse. Sam was still screaming, his ears were filled with a ringing, his vision was greying.

"Oh God!" the ranger exclaimed as he gently turned Sam onto his back. He was a mess of torn flesh and blood. He was desperately cold, his head felt slow and fuzzy, his whole body was shaking. He was going into shock.

"Sammy? Sammy!" the cries came from further down, into the dark. The ranger flinched when he heard it and looked between the direction it had come and back down to Sam, terrified and unsure.

"That's m'brother," Sam tried to explain but his voice was shaky and small and breathless, "Go help 'em."

The ranger gulped, seeming unsure, he gripped Sam's arm tighter.

"I'll be right back," he said, "I swear."

He got up, grabbing the torch and knife, then headed down the dark passage. Sam tried to steady his breaths but it was difficult when he could barely get a breath in at all. The burning Wendigo smelled rancid, the flesh was charred by now but the flame was still going, he could still see the monsters' victims so he turned his head away and let himself cry.

It occurred to him that Wendigos could mimic human voices as he began to slip away. The ranger might not have gone to his brother after all. He was too tired to keep his eyes open anymore.

He woke up, eyes still shut, when something slipped under his arms and legs.

"On three," it sounded like his dad, "…two, three."

He was pulled upwards, pain seared through every nerve and he cried out.

"Sammy, shh," his brother was there, right above his face, "You need to keep quiet."

The urgency in his voice reminded Sam of what was going on. "Two," he gasped, "Wendigos."

"We know," Dean hushed him, "Found out the hard way. Your friend here took one out, thanks to you."

Sam tilted his head back, realising the ranger was holding him up by his under arms, his dad had his legs. Dean was holding the remaining flare, looking down at him with terrified eyes.

"You're a damn idiot, you know that?" he asked as they began to move. It was painful and Sam was sure Dean was talking to keep him distracted, "What the hell were you thinking?"

"Saved your sorry ass," Sam managed to choke out with a weak grin, Dean smiled back, half-heartedly.

Sam must have been zoning out because the next thing he knew they were out in daylight, moving through the trees as fast as they could. They picked up speed at the piercing screech that sounded behind them.

"The other one'll be on us soon," John said, "Hurry."

They did, ignoring the whimpers Sam made with each jolt. The pain pulled him under again.

* * *

He remembered the agony, the inhuman screeching, the fire, the rumbling Impala engine under his back as his brother raced down the highway, the long medical terms and their needles and thread, a long, blissful numbness.

Like before, it was bright when he came to with some semblance of lucidity. The numbness was there again, and the tugging IV in the back of his hand, and the zoo animals printed on the walls. The only thing different was the spiky-haired, leather-clad boy sitting in the seat beside him, flicking uninterestedly through the channels on the TV. As if by instinct he turned around and stared at Sam.

"Did you kill it?" Sam croaked, Dean scowled like it was the worst thing Sam could have said.

"Bobby sent Caleb to help," he answered, "He saved our asses."

Sam smiled, Dean didn't.

"If you ever pull anything like that again I'll make you wish the damn Wendigo had gotten you first," he growled, very seriously. He turned back to the TV without a word. Neither of them said anything when Dean slipped his hand into Sam's and held on tightly, not even letting go once Sam had fallen asleep again.

* * *

I'm very sorry that I was given this prompt almost two months ago. I hope the length of it makes up for that. Also, I think this is all the prompts I have so far, if I've forgotten any (I got a little mixed up, hence, the long wait) please let me know so I can dig through my inbox to find it.

Anyone who wants to submit a prompt is welcome to. I will write it, even if it takes a little while. The next chapter completely depends on whether I get any requests.

Thanks for being patient.


	7. Wind Chimes

This chapter's prompt comes from Kas3y. I'm so sorry I lost it, my prompts got really muddled up but I've sorted it now. This chapter:

 _I just watched season 1 again, and in the episode 'Benders' I think it was practically Sam's fault that the dad died as he got out, took out the brothers and the father, whatever.  
So I think that if the brothers got outta jail or escaped they would come after Sam as pay back. So they tortured Sam or they hunt him like they were going to do the first time or anything really, your call on that :). It can also be a deathfic, don't mind. Don't care what season, thou not within season three :P _

This is set just before Shadow in season 1.

Warning: This is really dark.

* * *

Find Dad. That had been the mission from day one, even before Jessica. It had been the thing keeping Sammy going, find Dad and maybe he won't drown after the dam Jessica's death broke came rushing down to meet him. Find Dad, Dean thought, and they could be a family again.

Dean found Dad. It had only taken a phone call this time, one call after many. Even after John had ignored Dean's desperate message from Lawrence, or Sam's pleas after Dean's run-in with a Rawhead. He'd ignored the other messages;

 _Dad, I can't find Sam. I don't know if you're even going to listen to this… I can't find him. I will though. I'll find him._

 _It's been a week, Dad. I can't find anything. Nothing. Dad, I need help._

 _Dad, call me._

 _Dad, It's been two weeks! Why the fuck haven't you called me? Do you even care that Sammy's missing? You know what? Fuck you. I'll find him myself._

 _Dad. Please. I think I know who took him. It's bad… please. Call me._

 _I don't even know if you're alive anymore. I don't know if Sammy's alive. Please… just call me._

 _Dad, the cops are involved. They think Sam is involved in something… those fuckers took other kids. They're just people, Dad. I need you. Please._

 _Dad… Dad, they. They, uh, found them. I need you to come to the morgue. Call me back. Please._

John had been listening. Dean knew he had, after that last message John had called him right away, demanding Dean's location. Here they are, in some dim, overly-clean hospital corridor, way down at the bottom of the building. The police had said there were a few kids. Five young men; all tall, all brunette, all Caucasian, all in their early twenties.

A woman walks by, slowly, like every step is agony for her. A man has his arm around her, taking her weight like she can't carry it herself. She's crying, quietly, red-eyed and shaking. If Dean has to describe the woman he would say she looks destroyed, completely broken. She makes her way, hunched and weary, out of the mortuary.

A few families have been, Dean has been there the whole time, even before Dad had arrived. He'd been the first one there, could have gone in first, but he'd refused. He was waiting for his dad, he'd told them. It was only a half-truth. He'd watched people enter and leave the room, some looked relieved, some looked like the woman who'd just been by, they had all looked different upon leaving.

Four bodies have been claimed, he noticed that much. That left one more. Dean prays that he wouldn't recognise the last one. Every time he does he hears Sam's voice in his head saying, 'You know praying doesn't mean anything when you're an atheist, right?'

If he could answer Dean would say, 'It does mean something when you're desperate.'

His dad hadn't said a word to him. He'd hugged him tighter than Dean ever remembered, squeezing hard enough for Dean's spine to crack, then he'd just dropped down into the seat next to him. He's been leaning forward, hands clasped and pressed to his lips, for a long time. Dean wonders if he's praying too.

* * *

Sam didn't like bars, not much. Sure, he would enjoy a beer, play some pool, but it wasn't _his_ place. Bars were where Dean thrived. Sam thrived in libraries, quiet places where he could sink into his own thoughts, he'd thrived at Stanford. Sometimes, bustling places drained him. While Dean would drink and hustle and flirt, Sam would huddle in the corner with his laptop and his notes, barely touching his drink.

Dean had told him, 'If you're going to grow your hair out, Samantha, you might as well let it down.'

At that point, Sam was exhausted, dreams of Jess kept him up at night and work kept him up all day, even when he wasn't working. They'd been at the bar for three hours by then and Sam just wanted to go back to the motel. For once, he wanted to sleep.

Dean had been sharing his airspace with a pretty blonde girl in a cropped band tee and cut-off shorts. Her lips were-overly glossed and her hair was overly-fluffed. She was like Dean's perfect woman; Jessica Simpson in Jukes of Hazard.

He'd seemed a little… busy, and Sam had managed to slip out with only a small wave from Dean, a gesture which pretty much told him that Sam was okay to go, he could take the car and he probably wouldn't see Dean until the next morning. And, yes, he had gotten all that from one little wave.

Then he was out in the parking lot, setting his laptop and journal down on the hood of the Impala as he fished out the keys. It had been quiet, despite the muffled sound of rock music coming from inside the bar. Sam had known right away that something was off.

But he should have realised that history was repeating itself.

* * *

Every time someone walks by their shoes squeak against the linoleum flooring, a constant whine as Dean and John sit there, waiting. He never thought that finding out if someone was dead could be so formal. Honestly, Dean had never imagined being in this situation, not for Sammy. Sam is supposed to live forever, longer than Dean, that's for sure.

Sam's supposed to be the one to stay behind once John and Dean have been chewed up or hit their head hard enough to loosen a few screws. Sam's supposed to be the one to get a life-sucking corporate job and a pretty wife who bakes for the neighbourhood barbeques and he's supposed to have a couple of annoying little Sammys to tuck in at night.

Sam is not supposed to be a potential cadaver.

Dean stiffens every time someone in scrubs walks their way, sucking in a breath as if not breathing means time will stop or he'll turn invisible or something else dumb he'd convinced Sam of when he'd been little. A girl strides past, not giving him a second glance. She's pretty, red ponytail swinging behind her, but she has a determined, over-achieving thing about her. Maybe it's because her expression is fixed like Sam's usually is when he's concentrating.

Every thought comes back to Sam; it isn't painful until he remembers where they are.

A woman exits the morgue, clipboard in hand, dressed in a white coat. She's looking at Dean and John, heading their way. Dean knows who she is but it doesn't stop him from holding his breath like the magic ability that had been working until now will just send her right by. He doesn't look up until she stops in front of them.

"Dean and John Winchester," she says in a practised sympathy.

John's on his feet, shaking her hand. Dean stares at the ground, not ready to shake her hand, never. He ends up on his feet when John hauls him up, his hand lingers on Dean's back. The woman nods to them and leads them down to the morgue.

He expects everything to stop, like in the movies. He'll walk, slow motion and silent, into the morgue, lay eyes upon Sam's body and the world will suddenly freeze because how can it keep turning on its axis when Sam is gone.

Things aren't like in the movies; Dean should know that better than anyone. The hospital keeps bustling around them like they're not even there. Once they're through the door he realises they aren't even in the morgue yet, they stop in an office but Dean can see a metal table through another doorway with a white sheet over a few lumps, too flat and unevenly shaped for it to be a whole body.

He remembers the mobile of human bones from the last time.

* * *

He woke up with wind chimes in his ears. His neck stung and his head was foggy. When he remembered that he never actually got into the Impala he jolted awake. He'd never been there before but it was familiar- crooked, dirty, cluttered with the oddest things. The cage is what sparked his memory, he was in a cage again. He knew.

It wasn't like the last one with the impossible lock and room enough to sit up. This one must have been meant for a dog, a large one, but a dog smaller than Sam. He glanced around; weapons, dishes of… teeth, oh God. The wind chimes weren't that at all; human bones hung from string and jangled against one another making a dull, broken song.

"We got you for sure now, boy," a voice thick with a southern accent, missing a few teeth. Sam looked up through the bars. The Benders… who were supposed to be in jail. "Took us a while, got some o' the wrong pretty-lookin' boys."

Sam would have backed up in the cage if he'd had the space.

"They were practise, though," Bender said. Sam didn't remember their names; the two sons had been barely distinguishable anyway. "Bet you're surprised to see us again," he added.

Of course Sam was surprised. He'd last seen them only a few months ago and he'd been more than happy to put every memory of that experience in the Impala's rear view mirror.

"We're gonna have some fun," Bender told Sam, eyes glinting. Which was really just pushing it with the clichés, he'd already been kidnapped by a cannibal hillbillies for the _second_ time, and now his eyes were _glinting with madness_. In any other situation, Sam might have laughed.

Bender stared at Sam, waiting for an answer, probably waiting for him to beg. Sam wouldn't do that, begging wouldn't get him anywhere. He just had to wait it out for Dean to find him, because he would, Dean always found him.

Unless he was getting busy with Jessica-Simpson-lookalike. No, Sam's laptop was left on the car, Dean would notice that and he'd kick blondie to the curb as he went frantic looking for him.

"You killed Pa," Bender accused, which wasn't technically true. Sure, Sam had shot the bastard, but the police woman had been the one to take him out. Though, the Benders wouldn't know that… well, shit. Sam didn't answer, nothing he could say would help the situation.

"Missy's been missing her daddy," Bender went on, "I think you owe her."

Then there she was, still as creepy as the last time. Last Sam had heard the girl had gone into the system, hopefully along with a crap-load of counselling. She moved in an unhuman way, like an animal sniffing out something lesser than them, a fox after a rat. She had a knife in hand, small and sharp, a shaving blade, and Sam couldn't stop himself from stiffening.

"Missy, you can play, but don't make too much o' a mess. We still need him, 'kay?"

Missy nodded and slinked over, joints moving like she'd never learned to walk properly. Likely, she hadn't. In a way, Sam felt sorry for her.

"I like making pictures," she said, not to anyone in particular, whipping the blade up. Sam shied away, but he couldn't get away from her in the confined space, and she made a careful line on his arm. It stung, enough for him to grunt with pain. He wouldn't scream, not for them.

He struggled, but in the end, Missy made her picture. She smiled at it.

"Now you're even prettier," she said. Sam dared to glance down at the seeping red flower etched into his upper arm, it was crooked and messy, slashed through with lines from each time Sam had tried to jerk away. It was dirty, the knife had been rusty and unclean, and now it was in his blood. His time had seriously shortened unless Dean hurried up and took him to the ER for a tetanus shot.

Sam didn't feel sorry for Missy Bender anymore.

* * *

"I understand you've been waiting for a while," the doctor says, "But it's my job to speak to you before you go in."

John nods, still a professional under the circumstances.

"There's only one person left to be identified," she explains, "It will be a shorter process of identification to do since this one was most recently deceased. I understand that this is uneasy. If you wish to leave at any moment, please say so. You may take as long as you need."

Dean nods that time, he's just doing it, because it's all he can do. Pretend that he understands. His head refuses to wrap itself around the fact that Sam might be in there. He's not, he can't be.

His eyes flicker back through the door. Everything is shiny grey, cold-looking. It's where the dead is kept, it's where Sam might be.

"Whenever you're ready," she says softly.

"We're ready," John barely finishes his sentence because Dean just snaps, "No."

* * *

Sam wasn't sure how long he'd been in there, cramped and twisted between the bars. He'd not been fed, just drawn on by Missy and her rusty knife. He felt unwell, which is bad enough, the flaming red carvings on his arms were enough to tell him that they desperately needed to be cleaned.

His head was pounding, like something was pressing on his skull from the inside, his mouth and throat were dry enough that it hurt to swallow. The worst of it was the pain in his stomach, it was twisting and cramping. He was so hungry but he felt so nauseous.

The Benders liked to tease him with unintelligent insults, they wouldn't have gotten to Sam if he hadn't been wasting away to his bones. Maybe they'd tie him up like a wind chime.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been there. But he knew it was longer than it should have taken Dean to find him. By now, Sam knew Dean wasn't coming. He was going to die. He just wished they'd hurry up with it. Cut off his meat, hang up his bones, add his teeth to the tin. He didn't care anymore, just do it sooner than later, please.

He prayed. All the time. At first, he'd prayed for Dean to find him, or for himself to find a way out. Then he'd prayed that Dean would be okay once he was gone, that he'd have something to burn. Now, he prayed that it would be over. That maybe he'd see Jess soon. Maybe he'd meet his mother.

Then one of the Benders came in, unlatched the door, dropped a blunt knife on the floor and left the room. Sam untwisted himself from the cage and let himself stretch out onto the floor, it was painful, his joints cramped and cracked, but he was used to pain. He stayed there for a long while, ignoring the knife and hoping that they might come back and finish the job.

They didn't come back.

He didn't want to move, he wanted to stay where he was and drift away, hopefully it would be an end. It was pathetic, he'd given up too easily, he was weak.

 _Get your ass off the floor and fight, Sammy_. At this point, Sam couldn't tell if he was just imagining it or if he'd really lost it this time and was hearing voices. Dean. Of course, he'd hallucinate his own brother. That really said something about their relationship.

Dean, or not-Dean, was right. Even if Sam wanted to give up, he couldn't do that to his brother. He had to try. Dean would. Sam grabbed the knife, though his hand-eye coordination was a little off because his vision was blurry, pounding along with his head.

Getting to his feet was difficult, he went down a couple of times, knocking over jars filled with bits of… people. Sam used the wall to keep himself up and pushed himself on. It was raining outside, and dark, and he slipped in the mud a little as he left the house. It wasn't the same as the last one, smaller, and there was no barn but plenty of surrounding wood.

Sam had no clue where he was, how far from the nearest town, how far from Dean. He didn't even know if he was in the same state. He was freezing but his arm was on fire, flaming and sickly. Even if he escaped the Benders, he didn't know if he'd find a hospital in time. He might go into sepsis or starve to death at the bottom of a ditch.

Nevertheless, Sam had to move. He made his way into the woods, stumbling on tree roots, slipping on soggy leaves, getting soaked down to the bone. He could hear them coming, laughing, like it was sport.

Sam _ran_.

* * *

"Dean," his dad is saying it gently, "We need to – "

"No," Dean bites out, "Not until I'm ready, right?"

He turns to the woman and she nods.

"Well, I'm not ready," he says.

The mortician looks sympathetic, though it's clear she wants them to get in there and do it, she needs them to identify, or not identify, the body.

"Your father can do it," she suggests, "You don't have to do it."

"No," Dean shakes his head, "I have to do it."

Because it's Sam. And Sam wouldn't want the last person to say _Yes that's Sam, that's my_ _boy_ to be dad. Because if that really is Sam in there, cold and naked and covered in a white sheet, Dean owes it to him to be there and claim him.

He glances again through the door at the half-boy under the sheet, the boy that's already been claimed by some poor mother, a woman who had to look at her child in pieces. Dean finds a twisted gratitude within himself that this body was the freshest, that if it is Sam, then maybe he'll still look like Sam.

"Are you ready?" she asks, like she's said it a dozen times already. She could have and Dean wasn't listening. He can only find it in himself to simply nod.

She leads them into the next room. There are five neatly lined metal tables, all with varying shapes under their sheets. Dean stares at them as they go by, trying to see if he can make out facial features under the sheets. All boys, all sons, all dead.

She stops at the last table, waits for them to catch up. Dean finally looks at it. The body is long, almost filling the entire table, but it's obvious that whoever is underneath is skinny. He can only make out the nose sticking up under the sheet.

John and Dean stand next to the head; he finds himself breathing evenly. He should be hyperventilating.

"Are you ready?" she asks again. John looks to Dean, lets him dictate this for once. Sam was more his than John's, they both know that.

She pulls back the sheet.

* * *

A/N

The ending is completely open to interpretation, whether you think Sam was under the sheet or if he's still out there, running, or if he found his way to a hospital. What do you think happened to Sam?

Next up is Shannanigans.


	8. Red Rain

Prompt from Shennanigans:

 _I have a prompt if you want it. Sam, any age, has gastritis and a slow intestinal bleed. This is discovered through his behavior due to anemia (weak, hazy, forgetful, drunk-like, tingly appendages, take your pick). Dean is an awesome, caring big bro, who might give Sam a hard time at first, but softens when he realizes their lifestyle is to blame._

This is set early season 8, between _Southern Comfort_ and _A little slice of Kevin_ , when the boys are trying to get back into the swing of things but their relationship is strained.

* * *

The coffee cups in his hands were hot, burning his palms, and he hurried from the Impala over to their motel room with a greasy paper bag tucked under his arm. Dean managed to skip past a car just in time and stopped outside of their door, he banged his elbow against it.

"Sam!" he called, "Open up! I don't have any free hands."

There was no answer and Dean was forced to place the cups down on the ground before his fingers were seared off. He shook his hands out a little, hoping they might cool down and he dipped into his pocket for the room key, unlocking the door he kicked it open.

"Sam, damn it, what the hell are you doing?" he demanded as he retrieved the coffee cups from the pavement. Dean stepped into the room, surprised to find Sam was still in bed where he'd left him. Dean scowled and set breakfast down on the nearest table.

That morning, Dean had shaken Sam awake before heading out, and Sam had promised he'd be up by the time he got back. Dean pushed the door closed as loud as he could. Sam jerked under the bedsheets at the slam and blinked blearily over his shoulder at Dean.

"You forget something?" he asked. Dean snorted because it didn't even sound like Sam was joking.

"I've been gone for like half an hour, Sam," Dean growled, "And you were supposed to be ready to hit the road by now."

Sam frowned and rubbed his eyes, he nearly gasped when he glimpsed at his watch.

"What's wrong with you?" Dean grumbled, "Did suburban life turn you into a slob?"

Sam dropped his head and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I'm just tired," he said quietly and disappeared into the bathroom, scrubbing a hand over his face. Dean dropped into one of the seats at the table when he heard the shower running.

He grumbled to himself as he sipped his coffee. Purgatory had made him sharper, he was constantly ready to get out there and work a case. Maybe Purgatory hadn't had mortuaries to investigate or weeping widows to question but it had had a crap load of monsters to kill. And wasn't killing a crap load of monsters what Dean was best at?

And then there was Sam. Sam, who hadn't even bothered to look for Dean, who had hit a dog with _Dean's_ car, who had kept it and moved into a suburb with the damn vet. Wasn't running away what Sam did best?

Dean grit his teeth. Sam took longer than usual in shower which only ground his teeth harder. By the time he came out of the bathroom in a puff of steam, not looking much better than when he went in.

"You look like shit," Dean remarked, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Thanks," Sam mumbled, not looking in the mood for talking much. Tough. He went about pulling on some clothes, moving like his joints ached. Dean frowned.

"You okay?" he asked, it was hard to keep the worry from his voice.

"I'm fine," Sam sighed, even facing away from Dean it was obvious he was rolling his eyes, "Just tired."

Dean raised his hands. "Sorry," he drawled, "Next time I won't ask."

Sam didn't answer, just took his sweet time buttoning up his shirt. Dean stood up, grabbing his bag. "I'll wait in the car," he said, still eyeing Sam, "Unless you need a hand tying your shoes?"

"Screw you, Dean," Sam huffed, still not turning around. Dean scoffed and headed out the door.

He had the music turned up, tapping his fingers to the beat on the steering wheel, when Sam dropped into the passenger seat with a tired sigh. Dean didn't bother saying anything, just started his baby up and turned onto the road. He finally glanced over to Sam about half an hour in, Sam was leaning against the window, looking half-way between awake and asleep.

"What's up with you?" Dean had to ask. Sam jerked a little, blinking at Dean.

"Huh?"

Dean sighed. "You're looking like the walking dead," he told him, "Seriously, you sick or something?"

Sam shuffled around in his seat a little until he was upright. "Dunno," he said around a yawn, "Maybe I'm coming down with something."

Dean felt himself relax a little. It was just a cold. He cleared his throat. "Well, don't go breathing near me," he said, "We can't have both of us being useless."

Sam paled a little, Dean realised, which must have been some kind of feat since he was already looking white. Dean should have noticed that. Maybe he shouldn't have been so harsh on Sam.

Maybe Sam shouldn't have abandoned him for some girl.

He focused on the road, trying hard not to watch Sam out of the corner of his eye.

* * *

"I just don't understand," Mrs Alan managed to stutter out before she burst into another fit of tears, "H-he always c-came back f-for dinner..."

The brothers had been interviewing the victim's wife for almost half an hour, mostly because Mrs Alan was slowing the process with her tears. Dean glanced quickly to his side where Sam was sitting. His brother was normally the one to jump in at this point to offer the widow/widower a shoulder to cry on, but Sam had been strangely quiet.

Looking at him now, Dean noticed that Sam's colour wasn't looking much better than before, in fact, the kid had a sheen of sweat on his pale brow. Dean cleared his throat which got Sam's attention, he lifted his head as if it were heavy on his shoulders and blinked a little at Mrs Alan.

"Are you okay, detective?" she asked from behind her tissue, her brow was drawn together in concern.

"I, uh," Sam shook his head a little and cleared his throat, "I'm fine, thank you."

She gave him a water smile and dabbed at her eyes a little. "If you're sure," she said, "But maybe you could come back another time."

"Yeah," Sam nodded, looking awfully grateful, "Thank you."

He was already getting slowly to his feet and Dean didn't have much choice but to follow. He quickly shook Mrs Alan's hand when Sam just walked right past her. She watched them go from the doorway, but grabbed Dean's arm before he could catch up to Sam.

"Try to get your partner checked out?" she suggested, "My husband, God rest his soul, was a doctor, as you know. I know a little about medicine but I do know that he doesn't look well at all."

Dean gave her a small smile and gently removed himself from her grip. "Don't worry, ma'am. I'll keep an eye on him."

She let out a breath, either from relief or maybe she was just that tired out from crying, and she waved to them before heading back inside.

Dean dropped behind the wheel, Sam was already in the passenger seat with his head dipped back and his eyes closed.

"Shame she doesn't know that our ghost targets unfaithful men," Dean remarked, then looked at Sam again, who had barely moved. He leaned over and shook him a little, Sam jerked.

"What is it?" Sam asked, sounding half-asleep. Dean frowned.

"You are sick," he realised, "Maybe I should take you to the clinic."

"No," Sam was quick to protest, "We've got a job."

Dean frowned, unsure. Finally, he relented. "Okay," he said, "We'll head back to the motel to do a little research. But, Sam?"

"Mm-hm?"

"If I hear you so much as cough then I'm dumping you at the nearest clinic."

Sam sighed. "Fine," he agreed and rested his head against the passenger window.

* * *

As soon as they were back in the motel room, Sam had slumped down onto the end of the bed, then he'd laid down _just for a second_ and now he was completely out. Dean took a seat in the kitchenette and looked through some old records and files to find anyone who might fit the profile of their mystery ghost, but Dean was finding it hard to concentrate. He kept glancing over to Sam now and then. He couldn't deny that he was actually getting a little worried.

He got to his feet and went over to where Sam was asleep, legs still hanging over the edge of the bed, and gave him a few nudges.

"Sam," he called, still prodding his shoulder.

Sam blinked awake and looked up at him. "Huh?" he mumbled, "Did I fall asleep?"

"Yeah. But I thought maybe we should reconsider that visit to the clinic."

Sam shook his head and pushed himself into sitting position. Dean took note of the way Sam had to make an effort to stay up straight.

"Did you find anything?" Sam quickly changed the subject. He scrubbed a hand tiredly over his eyes.

"Not yet," Dean said. He hadn't taken his hand away from Sam's shoulder, half-worried that Sam might topple over if he did.

"I can take a look," Sam offered, pushing to his feet. Miraculously, he stayed there. "Maybe I should go to the local library. Look through their archives."

"Sam," Dean growled, that got his brother's attention, "I'm serious. I think you're sick."

Sam rolled his eyes, but in his current condition it just looked like he was trying to force them to stay open. "I'm fine. I'll be fine."

Dean eyed him critically. "Okay. We'll go to the library."

Without another word he grabbed the car keys from the table and headed for the door. Sam followed him out to the car and settled himself in his usual stop as Dean started up the engine. Even over the loud rumble Dean could hear Sam's heavy breaths.

"Sammy, you sound like crap," he remarked.

"I'm fine."

Dean was getting sick of hearing it. Sam was clearly not _fine_. He was white and tired-looking, even now Dean noticed that Sam looked a little skinnier than usual. Come to think of it, Sam hadn't had much appetite recently, less than usual. He made a sudden decision, quickly swerving left instead of right, causing another car to honk angrily at him.

"Dean!" Sam gasped.

"We're going to the clinic," Dean told him, "And don't tell me you're fine because it's pretty obvious that you're not."

"Fine," Sam finally said after a moment of quiet. He was hunched forward a little, arm wrapped around his middle.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, a little worried, "You in pain?"

Sam managed a nod. "My stomach."

"How long?"

Silence.

"Sam, how long?"

"A while."

"Damn it!"

Dean felt like a grade A dick for brushing Sam off. He could see a sign telling him that the clinic was near and his fingers relaxed around the wheel a little. He came to a stop at a traffic light and looked over to Sam.

"You doing okay?" he asked. Sam was still white but now his face was creased with pain and he was shaking.

"Sam?" Dean tried again.

Sam looked over to him. "I don't – "

Blood spattered across the front window. Sam's mouth was covered in it. His torso was soaked in it. His body heaved again and more blood came pouring from Sam's mouth and onto the dash.

"Holy shit!" Dean was already pressing on the gas, hurtling down the road despite the red lights. He swerved past other cars on the road, took no notice of the angry beeps from other drivers. He kept one hand tight on the wheel and the other was spread gently over Sam's back.

"Sammy, you're gonna be fine," he promised, "We're almost there, you hear me?"

Sam answered him by choking up another mouthful of blood.

Dean didn't bother finding a parking space. He came to a screeching halt right in front of the clinic's entrance. He leapt out of the car, completely forgetting about the keys, and rounded to the passenger side. He yanked the door open.

"Can you walk?" he was already trying to pull Sam to his feet.

Sam couldn't speak around the blood. There were tears in his eyes as he clutched onto Dean's jacket. Dean didn't wait, he hauled Sam up, only for Sam to drop heavily to his knees on the concrete, pulling Dean down with him. He carefully leaned Sam against the car and pressed his old blue bandana to his lips.

"I'll be back," he promised, "I have to get someone."

He dashed into the clinic, the smell of sanitiser barely covered up the smell of sickness. But with a quick look around, Dean saw that these people weren't _sick_. Not like Sam. It was filled with crying babies and burley men nursing boken arms and elderly people sitting in wheelchairs.

He almost collided with the main desk and the receptionist gave him a disapproving look. She slid a sheet of paper and a pen over to him.

"Fill it out then take a seat," She recited.

"No," Dean snapped, "My brother's outside choking on his own blood. Do something!"

She gaped up at him.

"Now!" he shouted. She flinched and jerked out of her seat, running off to a separate room, shrieking something about getting a doctor. Dean didn't bother waiting for her, he was already running out to the car where Sam was still propped up.

The good news was that he wasn't coughing up blood anymore. The bad news was that he wasn't conscious.

"Sam!" Dean cried, skidding to his knees. He shook Sam, thankful when Sam opened his eyes, half-lidded. There was a sluggish trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth and Dean quickly shifted Sam onto his side, breathing out in relief when Sam coughed out his mouthful of blood.

"I'm sorry, Sammy. I should have thought. They're coming. Help's coming."

A doctor turned up soon after. She checked Sam over, placed a blanket over him and hooked him up to a bag of blood which they hung from the car door. She called an ambulance to take them to the nearest hospital, the clinic didn't have what Sam needed, and she waited with them until the ambulance arrived.

Dean wished more than ever that Cas were still with them.

* * *

Dean wasn't sure if Sam was quite with him as he hurried alongside the gurney, pushing through double doors, down a long hospital corridor, but he talked to him anyway. Promised him he'd be fine. Promised he wouldn't leave him.

He couldn't be sure of the first promise. The second was a lie. A moment later he was told he couldn't go any further before he was pointed towards a grey plastic chair. He dropped down into it and tapped his foot. He did it for forty-one minutes before a doctor approached him.

He was in the doctor's face before she'd made it halfway across the room.

"Is he okay?" he demanded.

"Let's take a seat, shall we?" she suggested, already walking past him. Dean had no choice but to join her.

"I'm going to get straight to it," she began, "Sam has gastritis. Gastritis is an inflammation of the stomach lining, a condition that has a range of causes and is usually treatable. Now, the defensive barrier between Sam's stomach wall and stomach acid has been damaged and the stomach wall has been eroding away."

Dean blew out a breath. "And that's why he was coughing up blood?"

"Gastritis can go unnoticed for a long time. The internal bleeding was caused by a stomach ulcer which perforated. The ulcer formed because the condition has gone unnoticed for so long. The internal bleeding had caused anaemia, no doubt you've noticed fatigue or breathlessness in your brother?"

Dean nodded. "What happens now?"

"We're making sure he's stable right now. We're giving him blood transfusions and oxygen. We'd like to take him to surgery to remove the damaged tissue."

Dean sighed shakily. "Do whatever you've gotta do, Doc."

"You can see him before we take him to the OR, if you like. He's very tired but he should be lucid."

He followed her out of the waiting room. "What caused this?" he asked.

"Like I said, there are a range of causes," she said, "Common causes are severe stress or trauma, or excessive drinking or drug use. Do you think either of these could relate to your brother's situation?"

That was an understatement. Stress or trauma? How about a dead girlfriend, a dead dad, a brother in Hell, a knife through your spine, kick-starting the apocalypse, the cage? And excessive drinking or drug use? Did chugging down demon blood count as drug use?

Dean settled for saying, "Sam's been through a lot."

The doctor nodded, but she didn't seem completely satisfied. "We can continue this when we talk about post-surgery treatment."

They were in a long room lined with beds, some were empty and some were blocked off by a closed curtain. She took him to one near the end and told him someone would be by soon to take Sam to the OR. Dean waited for her to leave before pulling back the curtain.

Sam was too big in the hospital bed, his feet just about stayed on the end, and he was half-propped up with a basin on his lap which already had a spattering of blood in it. He looked over to Dean lazily and lifted a finger as a tired wave.

Dean took a seat at his bedside, feeling thankful that someone had cleaned most of the blood from Sam's mouth and replaced his drenched clothes with a clean hospital gown.

"You look like crap," Dean commented. Despite the transfusion Sam still looked too pale and his eyes looked purple and bruised.

"Feel like it," he managed to whisper. He seemed completely heavy in the bed, like he couldn't have even shifted his legs which were hidden beneath a tangle of blankets.

"I hear…" Sam went on, his voice was raw, "that I'm going to be cut open."

"Yeah," Dean confirmed. He dropped his head and sighed. "I'm so sorry, Sam. I've been… a dick."

Sam managed to huff a small laugh, but his brow creased painfully. "You're not wrong."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Anyway, what I'm saying is… I haven't been fair on you and maybe it's time to give you a break. I know I hold grudges but I can't do that with you. You've paid for your mistakes, a thousand times over."

"And now I'm paying again," Sam added, "Probably shouldn't have downed all that demon blood, huh?"

Dean's eyebrows shot up. Sam was making a joke about that? Sam avoided any mention of Ruby and the blood like the plague. Sam must have noticed Dean's surprise.

"I'm a little stoned right now," he explained. Dean smiled.

"I think you're going to be stoned for a while longer," he said, "Enjoy yourself."

"Oh, believe me, I'm having a blast," Sam remarked sarcastically, as best as his raw, slurring voice allowed. Sam was beginning to close his eyes when a couple of orderlies and a nurse arrived, unhooking his bed from the wall.

"I'll see you when you wake up," Dean promised, following along as they made it to the corridor. He stopped outside the elevator as Sam was wheeled inside.

"Yeah," Sam waved with his finger again, he leaned heavily into his pillow and Dean watched him take a deep breath.

"Bitch," Dean called as the doors began to close. There was the ghost of a smile on Sam's lips as he mouthed back _jerk_.

Once the doors were closed and Sam was out of sight, Dean immediately felt like he was missing a limb. He still felt sick to his stomach from everything he'd seen that day. He swore he would never see Sam hack up his own blood again.

* * *

Wow… it's been a long time.

First of all: No more prompts please. I will finish the ones I already have but I won't take on any new ones. I'm busy with the Sam I Am sequel right now (I'm already behind my schedule oops)

Secondly, thank you so much for being patient. I really appreciate it. Thank you so much for your reviews and prompts, it means a lot to see people take an interest in my writing. Until next time…


	9. Little Boy Blue

This prompt is from reannablue:

 _I wonder if you could write an AU where Sam and Dean do talk regularly when Sam is at Stanford. Sam is under stress to make deadlines/expenses and somehow Dean and John come through for him._

I certainly can do that. I've been looking forward to writing one of my Stanford prompts for a while so this is exciting. There is another prompt set in Stanford from an anon reviewer and I'll do my best to make them both individual. This contains some non-canon things which I added mostly for fun.

Ps. Sorry for taking so long, I wrote half of this before realizing I didn't like it, but after distancing myself from it for a while (okay, a few months) I managed to come back and get it done.

* * *

It's the beginning of winter but it's still hot as the devil's ass crack in Paulo Alto. Dean is driving behind his dad's truck with both front windows down, his leather jacket is tossed onto the empty passenger seat and it draws his eye more than usual. He misses his brother, worries about him just as much, and he's been looking forward to their surprise visit ever since his dad suggested it offhandedly about a month ago.

He slows the car as his dad stops up ahead in traffic and he blows out an annoyed breath. They would have been there by now if the roads hadn't been so packed, where the hell were people going anyway? What's so important at the beginning of December that everyone has to cram the highway?

Dean leans out of his window, hoping to catch a message from his dad, but there is none. He leans back inside and inserts a cassette tape. He plays it obnoxiously loudly, something he was never allowed to do with Sam, and a middle-aged dude in the car next to him flips Dean the bird. Dean just smiles back at him before turning the music up louder. He takes way too much pleasure in the gradual reddening of the guy's face, and he waves to him before he sets off again when the roads get moving.

By the time he's onto the streets of Paulo Alto he can already see hordes of students bustling around, there are even more around campus but not one of them is the 6'4 sasquatch he's looking for. Dean trails behind his dad's truck, pulling in to park by the sidewalk just outside of Sam's building. Sam's got his own apartment now that he's in his second year, Dean sends cash to his brother when he can to help with any expenses that the scholarship doesn't cover, his dad too, but recently he's been knee deep in cases that he doesn't have any to spare.

Sam should be fine, though. He has a job and the scholarship covers most of what he needs. Dad's already hopped out of his truck and he's grabbing his duffel out of the back, Dean follows suit and they make their way over to the apartment complex's entrance. He glances down the list and finds _Winchester_ in 3b on the third floor. They pass more students on their way up, most of them look like they want to hit the beach with their surf shorts and blonde hair.

Dad knocks three times, hard and quick. They wait for three minutes before trying again. No answer. Dean steps forward and bangs on the wood like he's warning about a fire.

"Sammy! Open up!"

Finally, he hears shuffling, then the latch, then the door creaks open and Sam peaks out. He takes a second to realize who's on his front step and his eyes blow wide, along with the door.

"Dad!" he exclaims, "Dean! What the hell are you doing here?"

"Can't visit my little brother at college?" Dean quirks, already pushing past a bewildered Sam. Sam steps back to let their dad in, who gives his son a pat on the shoulder as he goes by.

The apartment is small, one room with the living room and the kitchen, three other doors lead off to the bathroom and two bedrooms. The place is oddly decorated; the furniture is bare, obviously came with the place, and there's nothing else except for the mounds of books and papers that cover most surfaces. The kitchen benches are piled with unwashed dishes and empty beer cans. Dean turns around and notices that Sam isn't much different, he's wearing sweat pants and one of Dean's old Metallica shirts, he doesn't look tanned like every other kid, there are even shadows under his eyes, and his hair looks unwashed and messy.

"You look like shit," Dean tells him.

"Thanks," Sam snorts, moving the clear a space for Dean and John to sit down. "Sorry about the…" he gestures around the room, "If I'd known you were coming…"

"Nah, it's cool," Dean assures him, "Just get me a beer and we're good."

Sam rolls his eyes tiredly when Dean winks at him and makes his way over to the kitchen. "I guess you guys want dinner too?" he says, Dean hears the fridge door open and the pause that follows, "I, er, should buy groceries."

He comes back to the living room empty-handed and drops into the armchair next to the couch, he shuffles a bit a pulls a small text book out from under him. He sets it on the ground next to his feet and pastes on a grin.

"So, how's things?" he asks.

"Peachy," Dean answers, "I took out a Rawhead last week."

"Cool," Sam comments, not really paying attention, his eyes are glancing anxiously around the room.

"Sam?" John grabs his attention.

"Yeah," Sam scratches the back of his head, "Sorry… I'll go take a shower."

"Good idea," Dean says.

"Bite me," Sam snaps, getting up, he pauses to glance around the room. "Don't, er, touch anything. All my notes are in order."

Dean raises an eyebrow which Sam doesn't pay notice to as he heads to the bathroom. Dean waits until the water is running when he turns to his dad.

"What the hell?"

John sighs. "That's what I was thinking."

"The kid's a freaking mess," Dean says, rubbing a hand through his hair, "He's lost weight, did you see?"

"I saw."

"What do you think is wrong?"

John shrugs helplessly. "No idea. This isn't like Sammy at all."

Dean casts a glance over to the closed bathroom door. "Maybe once he's showered and fed he'll be fine."

"It's probably just exam stress."

Dean nods his agreement but he can't help that coil of worry that twists in his belly. When Sam comes back out of the bathroom he's redressed in the same clothes, but at least his hair is clean, and he walks to his bedroom without a glance for his family, like he's forgotten they're there.

Dean is pleased to see Sam re-emerge in fresh clothes and it looks like he's brushed his hair, it's long enough now to fall into his eyes. He's hopping a little in the doorway, trying to shove a shoe on his foot.

"I'm going to the store," he says, "I'll be back in, like, half an hour. Uh, make yourself comfortable… but don't touch anything, okay?"

"Okay," Dean answers, biting the inside of his cheek. He glances around the tiny TV-less room where there's barely anywhere to sit because papers and books seem to rule the joint, "We'll have a blast."

John pats his shoulder a little too hard and says, "Sam, we'll come with you. Maybe you can show us some of the sights, huh?"

Sam looks like he doesn't really know what to do, like debating who you go to the grocery store with is the biggest decision in the world. His shoe is still half-on his foot.

"Earth to Sam," Dean calls. Sam blinks and resumes putting his shoes on, nodding.

"Right," he mumbles, "Sorry, got distracted. Let's go."

"Awesome," Dean jumps to his feet.

Sam doesn't show them the sights, in fact, he's mostly silent when he isn't directing Dean to the store from the back seat. Dean looks at him through the rear-view mirror, Sam is looking down, that ridiculous mop of hair blocks half of his face.

"So, what's with all the empty bottles back at your place?" Dean decides to break the silence. Sam doesn't look up.

"Not mine. They're Brady's."

"Your roommate, right?" Dad asks.

"He's not really around much," is Sam's answer. He doesn't say much after that.

Dean goes straight to grab a couple of six-packs once they reach the store. Sam has already wandered off on his own with a shopping cart and Dean spends about ten minutes wandering around the store trying to find him before he bumps into his dad.

"Jesus!" Dean yelps, the beers nearly topple out of his grip. He manages to get a hold of them and turns to John. "Where's Sammy?"

His dad sighs. "He's been staring at all the different types of pasta for the last five minutes."

Dean glances over his dad's shoulder, Sam is in the middle of the aisle, staring and staring, shoulders slumped, and God he really looks like shit under the fluorescent lighting. He watches as he finally bends down and picks up a packet of spaghetti, Sam stares at it for about a minute before he puts it back. Dean groans and makes his way down the aisle, he dumps the beers in the cart and pushes past Sam to grab a bag of fusilli.

Sam blinks at him for a second then nods slightly, grabbing the cart and pushing it down the aisle and around the corner. Dean stays and watches him go.

"Something's seriously wrong," John says. Dean nods.

"Do you think… could it be our kind of thing?" he asks.

John ponders a moment. "You thinking about looking for a hex bag?"

Dean shrugs. "Worth a try," he says.

By the time Sam gets to the checkout he only has five items in the cart: bread, milk, pasta, bananas and beer. Dean shares a look with his dad _what the hell?_ Dean knows that Sam had fuck all in his kitchen. What are they having for dinner, toast?

Sam spends a while fishing out cash from his wallet, he's glancing around nervously, purposely avoiding looking at his family. They wait even longer as the girl behind the checkout counts every note and penny. She looks up at him a little uncomfortably.

"You're $2.94 short," she tells him. Sam blinks at her, almost uncomprehendingly, then tries to look through his wallet like there might be a stash of money that he didn't see the first time. Dean gently pushes him aside and hands her the money and she hands him the receipt. When he turns to look at Sam, the kid is already heading for the exit with grocery bags in hand. Dean jogs after him.

"What was that about?" he demands once he's caught up. Sam just shakes his head and walks right past the Impala.

"Sam!" Dean calls.

"I'm walking home," Sam yells back, already turning around the block. John shrugs at Dean and climbs into the passenger seat.

They get back to the apartment before Sam does and, of course, they don't have a key, so Dean picks the lock and they let themselves in, coming face to face with Sam's fucking flaky roommate. The kid's got that California tanned-blonde thing going on. He's leaning on the kitchen counter, lighting up a cigarette. He waves when he sees them and says, "Who are you?" mostly out of curiosity, not afraid like a normal person would be if some strangers broke into their apartment.

"I'm Dean, Sam's brother."

"Cool," Brady says.

Dean eyes him critically. "Are you allowed to smoke in here?"

"Nope," Brady shrugs, taking another drag. "So, you come to take the stick out of Sammy's ass?"

Dean's really tempted to shove a fist in the kid's face but instead he asks, "He's been acting weird with you, then?"

Brady smirks. "Oh yeah," he says, "All he does is work, barely leaves the apartment. He's not much fun anymore. I would hang out with him but he's sort of having a love affair with school," he gestures to all the papers that are stacked around the room.

"But he wasn't always like this with you?" John asks, always a man on the case.

"Nah," Brady shakes his head, blowing out a puff of smoke. "Kid used to party, wasn't always so damn stressy… anyway, it was nice to meet you fellas but I've got a keg party to go to."

He brushes past them and almost has his hand on the door when it opens and Sam steps through. He stares at them all like he wishes the room was empty and says, "I guess you met Brady," in the most unenthusiastic voice ever.

Brady completely talks right over him saying, "Speak of the devil. Your dad and brother were just telling me how they're going to try to remove the stick from your ass."

Sam's jaw visibly clenches and he drops the grocery bags not-so-gently on the floor. He looks like he's about to say something but Brady talks over him again.

"So, I know what the answer will probably be but do you want to come to Matt's party?"

"Sure," Sam says, glaring at John and Dean.

"Seriously?" Dean and Brady say at once, though Brady sounds far more delighted than Dean.

"Seriously," Sam repeats, already opening the door, "Come on, Brady."

Brady grins at John and Dean again and ducks out into the hallway after Sam, letting the door swing shut behind them.

"Hex bag?" Dean suggests.

"Hex bag," John agrees.

After tearing the place apart, they find no hex bag, which is just damn annoying because it means it's not something supernatural that's wrong with Sam and therefore Dean hasn't got a clue how to fix the problem. John's nursing a beer on the couch, watching as Dean double-checks the place.

"Fucking fuck!" Dean growls when he doesn't find a thing. He drops down into the armchair and gladly accepts a beer from his dad. "So I guess this just means he's being an asshole, huh?"

"Stress can make you irritable," John points out.

Dean scoffs. "Stress? _I_ get stressed, but at least I shower and actually go outside."

"We'll talk to him."

"He walked out," Dean growls, "He doesn't want us around. Why do you think he left for college in the first place…" he trails of, looking at his watch, "He's been gone for two hours. Do you think we should look for him?"

"Dean," John says, smiling a little to himself, "Maybe you should give him some space. We'll check into a motel and come back in the morning."

"I don't – "

"We'll come back in the morning," John repeats clearly.

Dean shrugs but settles on crossing his arms firmly over his chest. "No. I'm staying right here."

John nods tiredly. "Alright, but I'm taking his bed," he says.

Dean has been sitting on Sam's couch all night, flicking through one of Sam's textbooks. His dad is snoring in the next room and the noise is starting to drill itself into Dean's skull. At 5am he begins to contemplate giving up on waiting on Sammy and going to sleep but the door rattles a little like something heavy has fallen against it. He can hear clinking in the lock then something small and metallic clangs to the floor with a soft whistle, followed by another thump, heavier this time.

He gets up and opens the door, only to look down. Sam is sprawled in the hallway. He looks up at Dean with unfocused eyes and smiles.

"I dropped m'key," he says, pointing to where is lies by Dean's feet. Dean scoops it up and places it on a table inside by the door, then quickly turns back to Sam.

"You're drunk," he says.

Sam scowls, pouting like a child. "No. M'not," he tells Dean seriously before bursting into a fit of giggles. He smiles to himself and leans his head back, closing his eyes.

"Nuh-uh," Dean scolds, moving over to haul Sam upright by the shoulders, "No sleeping in the corridor."

Sam's head rolls a little on his shoulders and he stares at Dean, confused. "Where're we going?" he asks as Dean tries and fails to get him to his feet.

"Inside," Dean says clearly, like he's talking to someone half-deaf, "You know, the place you live that has a bed for you to sleep in."

Sam just nods like it was a genuinely intelligent answer to a seriously hard question. Dean tugs again but Sam doesn't seem like he's getting to his feet even with someone helping. "How the hell did you get home?" Dean wonders.

"Brady drove me," Sam says, but it all slurs out in one word. He turns his face right into Dean and Dean can smell the insane cocktail of alcohol on his breath. Sam cups his cheek, brow furrowed sincerely. "He's such a good friend," Sam tells him.

Dean turns his head away. "1) you should brush your teeth, and 2) Brady seems like a shitty friend."

Sam just laughs and Dean has no idea why.

"He wasn't always my friend," Sam tells him in a stage-whisper like it's some big secret.

"Well, you've only known him a couple years, so yeah I'm sure he wasn't _always_ your friend," Dean says.

Sam laughs again but shushes himself with a finger to his lips. "No, Dean. _No_. He was a good kisser."

Then Dean's arms have forgotten what they were doing and Sam goes back to the ground again in a fit of laughter. John appears in the doorway, taking in the scene before him but giving little away with in expression. Dean has no idea if their dad heard what Sam just said.

"Let's get him inside," is all he says. The two of them haul Sam into his room with little problem other than the fact that Sam keeps complaining that he's lost his key, no matter how many times Dean assures him that it's on the table in the living room.

"I won't be able to get in," Sam moans.

"You're already in, dumbass," Dean says, pulling the bedsheets over him.

"Not now," Sam says, as if it's obvious, "But now I can't get out if I can't get back in."

Dean sighs. "Just get some sleep, Sammy."

Sam closes his eyes and it's the first time he's actually listened to what Dean has said to him.

Dean wakes up with gritty eyes and a stiff neck. He's lying on the hardwood of Sam's apartment and every inch of him hurts. Someone places a hot mug of coffee onto the floor next to him and Dean looks up at his father thankfully before taking a long and appreciative sip. He drops himself onto the couch.

"Sleep well?" John asks with a small, amused smile.

Dean glares at him. "I've slept better in a forest with a Wendigo running wild."

John snorts a laugh, then takes a long drink of coffee. "Sam's still passed out. He'll be up and hugging the toilet in no time, I think."

Dean rubs the back of his hand across his forehead. "What the hell is going on with him?"

"Have you considered that maybe Sam isn't happy?" John suggests.

Dean would have laughed if his dad didn't look so serious. "What? But this is Sam's _dream_ school. He's been yapping on about it since he was fourteen years old."

"Dean," John says it gently, "People can be unhappy even when they everything they want. That's what depression does, it makes it hard for you to see the good in your life."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "Depression? Sammy isn't depressed."

"The signs are all there. He's tired, he's not hungry, he doesn't seem to enjoy anything, he spends most of his time inside by himself. Getting hammered last night was him trying to get away from it all."

"But-but how?"

"Moving away from your family can be stressful, learning to be independent can be stressful, and sometimes it can be too much to take. He'll be fine, Dean. We're here to make sure he gets some help."

Dean nods and he's about to say something because he has about a million questions, the main one being how his dad knows all of this, but Sam's door opens.

"Hey," Dean calls softly but Sam is making a quick run for the bathroom. Dean hears the toilet seat slam up and the following noises of Sam spewing his guts up. The two of them sit in silence, John is probably trying to drown out the sound of Sam heaving as much as Dean is. After God-knows-how-long, the toilet flushes and Sam stumbles out of the bathroom. His eyes are barely open as he navigates his way with one hand, the other is occupied by the bathroom's metal trash can.

"Sam," Dean tries again, but Sam barely looks in his direction, just says, "Going back to bed."

And Sam stays there until late afternoon. In that time, John and Dean buy Sam some groceries, real groceries. They rent out a motel room, guessing they'll be staying a little longer than expected. Dean manages to sneak off to the student union to grab some leaflets on mental health. Flipping through one, he finds that he can tick almost every box concerning his little brother.

The two of them meet back at Sam's place to find the kid sitting at the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee. Brady has made a reappearance, talking animatedly and blowing smoke everywhere, barely seeming to notice that it makes Sam turn a little greener.

"Yo!" Brady greets them.

Dean can't help the look of distaste that crosses his face. Brady barely seems to notice. "Uh… yo back at you," Dean says.

"Well, I've got places to be," Brady says abruptly, hopping off his stool, striding past John and Dean to the door, "Later, dudes."

He slams the door shut without waiting for a reply. "I don't like that kid," Dean says. Sam shrugs, like he doesn't have much of an argument.

"Good to see you alive," John says, he takes Brady's vacated seat and pats Sam gently on the arm. He eyes Sam's beverage critically. "You should be drinking water."

Sam nods and pushes the mug away. "Brady made it… I didn't want to say no."

Dean places a large glass of water in front of him and says, "Drink." Once Sam has downed half the glass he says, "Now talk."

Sam frowns at them both with confusion. "About what?"

"You were pretty smashed last night," John says, raising a brow. "That's not like you."

Sam shrugs and takes another sip of water. "Felt like drinking."

"And everything else?" John prompts. Sam looks a little clueless.

"Sammy, you've dropped a few pounds. It seems like you spend most of your time sleeping or doing work," Dean points out.

Sam lets out a small laugh which takes both of them by surprise. "You're seriously worried about all that? Have you met a college student before?"

Dean blinks. Sam seriously doesn't think there's anything wrong. Dean knows what it looks like when Sam lies and this isn't it. Sam really doesn't think anything is the matter.

"Look," Sam says firmly, "I've been a little stressed lately, that's all."

Sam is slipping out of the space between them, trying to make a break for his room. But John says, "How stressed?" and Sam stops. He drops his head and runs a hand through his hair, then he makes his way over to the couch where he drops into it and buries his head in his hands.

"Tell us, Sammy."

And Sam tells them. He tells them everything. He tells them how it wasn't so bad at first, he was nervous but excited to be at college. But then he realized just how different it was to live a civilized life, how hard it was to make friends after spending most of his childhood with too little time at one school to learn how to really socialize. He told them about how things got easier when he became good friends with Brady, how friends started to become something more, and the relationship was good and happy until Brady came back from Thanksgiving vacation acting like a completely different person.

And the relationship had ended messily but Sam being Sam had made an effort to remain friends. But Brady was his _only_ friend and Sam couldn't afford to live by himself. And as much as the scholarship helped, it didn't cover everything, and Sam had to take up a job on top of his studies. With school all day and work all night there wasn't much time for sleeping or eating properly. And with Brady spending most of his time out partying or screwing people in the next room, Sam was getting lonelier and sadder.

By the end of it Sam is trying really hard not to cry. He seems so overwhelmed by the whole thing that Dean wonders if he's noticed that he actually just came out to his father. But John doesn't look shocked or angry, he doesn't even look confused. He looks completely sympathetic, even lets Sam sob into his shirt. Maybe he knew about the Sam-likes-boys thing all along. He definitely knew before Dean found out by accident last night.

"Why didn't you call us?" John asks.

"I was supposed to be able to do it on my own," Sam says, wiping his eyes self-consciously.

"No one can do everything on their own," John says, "There's no shame in it."

Sam looks completely bewildered, like he never even thought such a thing was possible, let alone that those words would come from his father.

"Look, we got you some groceries," Dean gestures to the kitchen, "So that problem is out of the way. We'll stay with you as long as you need."

Sam shakes his head. "There's always a hunt."

Dean doesn't have the answer Sam wants, but both of them are surprised when John says, "We'll pass it on to someone else."

"Yeah, we'll do that," Dean agrees, but he's feeling a little dazed by what his dad just said.

Sam laughs wetly. "God, this isn't what I wanted when you came to visit," he says, "We were supposed to – "

"And we will," John promises. "But first you need to shower and get dressed. Then, we're going out for lunch. _Then_ , we're going to look into you getting a different roommate."

Sam hesitates, looking like he wants to protest, but in the end he agrees.

* * *

A/N I got really carried away with supportive!John, and then Sam ended up not being straight and well… it was a lot of fun for me, okay? I admit that I've always wanted to write a fic where Sam isn't straight and how his family might react to that. Maybe I'll write another where Dean and John are more in character. I don't think John was a bad person, I just don't think he was the best parent but I acknowledge he was dealing with more than anyone should have to.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed that! Please review :)


	10. All The King's Men

This prompt comes from LeeMarieJack: _Do you think you could do a poltergeist next? I love all the stuff flying around._

This is set pre-series during Sam's first poltergeist hunt at the age of 15.

* * *

Sam pressed his forehead into the Impala's window, wondering if maybe he pressed hard enough he might somehow defy the laws of the universe and slip right through the car door. But Sam would never be so lucky as to escape onto the highway in the middle of a rain storm. Not that his brother or father noticed that he wasn't as pleased to be going on this hunt as they were.

"Seriously, Sammy," Dean was saying, twisted around in the passenger seat to face him, "Poltergeists are nuts, way more exciting than ghosts."

"Dean," John cleared his throat, "Don't let him think it's going to be a cake walk."

Dean nodded enthusiastically. "Right," he agreed, "They're way more dangerous. But don't worry, we've got your back."

John took a second to glance at Sam as they stopped in traffic. "This is going to be a great learning experience for you, kiddo. Now Dean might have taken his first poltergeist on at 13 but that's nothing to worry about. These things are rare and it's never too late to learn."

"Yes, sir," Sam gave the expected answer and turned back to face the window. He didn't want to hunt a poltergeist. He didn't want to be on the road in the middle of the night. He didn't want to miss the math test he was supposed to have in the morning. But Sam had learned at an early age that what he wants doesn't count for anything.

He closed his eyes and went over maths problems in his head. He ignored the rock music he hated playing in the car. He imagined what it would be like to have a home-cooked meal each night, only one school to go to, someone who wanted to go to his science fair.

When he slept, he dreamed of red eyes in the shadows and claws in his skin.

"Dude, wake up!" Dean shook him hard enough that Sam was a little dizzy when he opened his eyes. Dean beamed at him. "We're here," he said, gesturing to the motel sign behind him, "We're gonna start the hunt in the morning."

"Yippee," Sam groaned, rubbing at his eye, "How long did I sleep?"

Dean shrugged. "An hour and a half maybe?" he guessed, "You were making noises, like moaning."

He waggled his eyebrows and Sam shoved him. "Shut up!"

"You got a girlfriend?" Dean asked, making sure to drag the last word out as long as possible.

"No," Sam snapped, "And if I did, she'd be miles away by now."

He promptly climbed out of the car and shoved past Dean to grab his bag from the trunk. Dean locked the car and marched after him.

"What's with the pissy attitude?" he demanded, grabbing Sam's shoulder.

Sam stopped and sighed. "Nothing. Sorry," he muttered, rubbing his eye. "I'm tired."

Dean's face softened significantly and his grip loosened into a gently rub. "Right. We're all tired. You'll feel better in the morning."

The motel room was about the same as always; a crappy TV, a greasy kitchenette, damp on the ceiling, cracks in the bathroom tiles, and only two beds.

"Sorry, Sammy," John said, not sounding too sorry at all, "They only had doubles. You can take the couch or share with Dean."

"He's not sharing with me!" Dean was quick to protest. Sam had already dumped his bag on the couch, he'd predicted this back in the last town. Of course he'd have to sleep on the couch. He _always_ slept on the couch.

But that didn't mean he couldn't have the first shower. He was locking the door just as Dean noticed, Sam found his brother's protests oddly enjoyable. Growing up in so many different motel rooms, Sam had come to be a pro at figuring out how to work every possible kind of shower dial. He turned the water up to hot and stripped off. He caught a glance of himself in the mirror. He had grown a lot in the last few months, stretch marks ran up his legs and back, his face was changing too, growing sharper, losing its softness. Sam had left the baby fat a few states away, he had grown, and he was certain he wasn't done yet.

The water burned his icy skin but Sam let it wash over him until it was pleasant. Of course, in his hurry for the first shower he'd forgotten his wash kit and had to settle for the motel's tiny shampoo bottles which he suspected came from the eighties.

He kept it quick, there was no point in pissing his brother off any more than he already had, and shut the water off, wrapping himself in a sickeningly orange towel. As predicted, once he was out the door Dean was glaring at him.

"Better not have used all the hot water, bitch," Dean remarked, shoving past him and into the bathroom. John was leaning against the headboard of the bed closest to the door, scanning papers as usual. He didn't pay either boy any notice.

Sam fished out his pyjama's from his bag; one of Dean's old shirts and a pair of sweats that were too short for his legs. Not exactly comfortable with changing in front of his dad, Sam shoved himself as far around the corner in the kitchenette as possible and changed. He rubbed the damp out of his hair with the towel before draping it over the radiator to dry, then he lay down on the couch, tugging the spare blanket up over himself.

Being the youngest meant doing everything last, but Dean always said Sam got the couch because he was the smallest. That may have been true but Sam was still by no means small, and his feet poked out over the edge. The cushions were lumpy and the blanket was scratchy, he was situated right under the window where the rain pounded against the glass. Sam pulled a book he was supposed to read for English from his bag. He had a feeling he wouldn't be sleeping much that night.

* * *

He woke up at the crack of dawn when a pillow smashed into his face. He jumped up, heart racing from the shock, to find Dean standing by the bathroom door, toothbrush hanging out of his grinning mouth.

"Morning, Samantha," he said around a mouthful of foamy toothpaste. Their dad was dressed already, sitting at the kitchen table, reading papers again. Sam wondered if he was determined to remember every single word of whatever the hell he was reading.

He waited until Dean had left the bathroom, his smug little grin was really chafing at Sam. He took care of business, washed his face and brushed his teeth. Then, the three of them were off to some grease bag of a diner for breakfast. It wasn't even 6am so there were only two other customers, truckers sipping black coffee at the counter. They ended up in the most distant booth so Sam could listen to Dean talk about how much poltergeists were the equivalent to a hunter's fun family day out.

"It's like dodgeball but with more… knives and shit," Dean exclaimed, waving his fork at Sam.

"Don't really like dodgeball," Sam muttered. He looked down at the menu. It all seemed like high-sugar, high-fat calorific crap. He was scanning the page for the option least likely to give him a heart attack just as the waitress came over to take their orders. She was middle-aged, plump and warm, exactly the sort of person who might be described as motherly.

"What can I get you boys?" she asked, pen hovering over her notepad.

"Eggs and bacon with a cup of black coffee," his dad was quick and respectful, handing her his menu. She nodded and scribbled it down. She turned to Dean.

"I'll have the pancake stack with a side of bacon, sugar," he said, flashing her one of his sweetest smiles, "And a coffee for me, too."

"No problem," she jotted it down and turned to Sam with a significantly softer expression.

"Uh, fruit salad," Sam said. He ignored the frown she gave him as she collected the menu and headed off to the kitchen.

"Afraid you won't fit your prom dress?" Dean asked. Sam gave him a sharp kick under the table, tucking his legs up onto the seat before Dean could get his revenge.

"Boys!" John snapped, then turned to Sam, "Stop acting like a child."

There wasn't much point in arguing that Dean had started it, no one ever listened to him anyway. He let his dad drill on about how to take out a poltergeist; salt and iron wouldn't be much use since they're invisible, a salt and burn would be even more useless since the ghost is so old it's not tethered to anything anymore. It was all a bit confusing, really.

The waitress came back with their orders. She set Sam's fruit salad down on the table, followed by a glass of orange juice and a stack of pancakes.

"On the house," she said with a smile, "A growing boy like you could use some more energy. You're as skinny as a rake, darlin'."

She went off to serve the more recent customers who had entered the diner. Dean scowled at Sam's pancakes. "How come you get free stuff?" he demanded, "No way that's fair."

"You can have them if you want," Sam offered. He speared a strawberry and chewed it very slowly. He wasn't particularly hungry.

"You'll eat every bite, Sam," his dad said, not looking away from his newspaper, "She's right, you need more meat on your bones."

Sam groaned just as Dean did, and he spent the next fifteen minutes forcing it all down. There was no use in arguing with his father.

Once John had paid the bill, the three of them were back in the car, off to talk to the family whose how was being haunted. The young couple and their baby had evacuated the place a couple of days ago, staying with a relative a few streets away. Of course, Sam had to wait in the car.

"Why?" Sam asked, irritated.

"It'll seem unprofessional if they see we have a kid with us," his dad explained, "We'll be right back."

After half an hour, Sam's mind was turning numb with boredom. His stomach was heavy and he felt nauseous. He was exhausted, eyes already drooping shut as he lay stretched out in the back seat. More than anything, Sam wished he were at school.

He jolted from his half-sleep when Dean and his dad returned, slamming the car doors shut in their wake.

"We've got the keys to the house so we're heading over there now," his dad said, starting the engine.

Sam sat up straight. "Wait. Now?" he felt suddenly wide awake. He barely knew anything about poltergeists, had never come face to face with one in his life. He wasn't ready to go up against it now.

"Relax, Samantha," Dean chuckled, "We're not taking it out yet. Poltergeists are more active at night so we're just checking the place out, get EMF readings and stuff, you know?"

"Right," Sam muttered, blowing out a breath. He sank back down onto the back seat.

The house the poltergeist was haunting was surprisingly normal. Sam wasn't sure what he had expected but it wasn't a white picket fence, blue shutters and a magnolia tree. But the swing out front was empty, the curtains were pulled shut, the whole house was silent on a busy street full of children playing, neighbours chatting, people gardening or heading off to work. This was what normal looked like.

But the house they were parked in front of was evidence that nothing is completely safe. Sam shook the thought from his mind, he was sounding far too much like his father.

He followed Dean and Dad up the path. Embarrassingly, his mind wandered and he imagined that this was their house and they were just coming home. But the bashed in wooden panel in the hallway yanked that fantasy away as quickly as it had come.

"Looks like the thing did some real damage," Dean observed, poking at the splinters.

"It's lucky the family got out when they did," John agreed. He pulled out his EMF meter, it lit up lazily.

"Casper isn't up for too much fun right now," Dean said, ducking his head into the living room. Sam supposed they were supposed to split up and look for… something? He didn't know what he was doing in all honesty. He ended up being distracted by the family photos up on the wall.

The woman was pretty, brown curls and doe-eyes. She beamed as her husband pecked her cheek on their wedding day. She smiled even brighter as she held her baby. For Sam, things like this were more foreign than any kind of supernatural creature.

He jumped when he heard a thud upstairs. He glanced around but his brother and dad had disappeared off into the house.

"Uh, guys?" he called.

Dean popped out into the hallway. "What's up, Sammy?"

"It's Sam," he said, rolling his eyes. "And I heard something upstairs."

Dean grinned, glancing at the stairs. "C'mon then," he patted Sam on the back, "Who you gonna call?"

Sam just groaned and allowed Dean to take the lead up the stairs. Sam guessed the sound had come from the right of the hallway and they were led into the master bedroom. It was empty and quiet, no chills or sign of a malevolent spirit. Sam wandered around the room. There were more family photos, a few strange-looking art pieces, the array of painted rocks and candles by the fireplace were especially weird. It was almost as bad as the bowl of potpourri sitting on top of the dresser.

"Maybe I was wrong," Sam said, shrugging, "I don't think anything's up here."

He turned around. Dean wasn't there. Sam sighed and muttered _asshole._ He rounded the bed towards the door. Dean was on the ground, writhing, turning purple as he tried to tug on the tie which was fastened around his neck.

"Dean!" Sam dropped to his knees, he tried to loosen the tie but it wouldn't budge. He pulled his knife out of his boot and yelled, "DAD!"

Then he heard something crack and everything turned white for a second. When everything cleared he was on his side and it felt like his skull was going to cave in on itself. He reached for his knife which had skittered away but his hand wouldn't touch the hilt no matter how hard he tried. Then his dad was there, swooping the knife up.

Dean was barely struggling as John sliced the tie away. He hauled his son upright and Dean let out a heavy gasp, leaning into his dad, eyes half closed. Sam was sitting up too, though he didn't remember how he came to be that way.

"You were supposed to watch out for each other," his dad growled, "Where were you when Dean was being attacked?"

There was a slip of a thought that said _where were you, dad?_ but Sam couldn't catch onto it. He was finding it hard to answer the question. "I wasn't looking," it took him a moment to realise he had said that.

"Exactly!" John snapped, "You weren't paying attention and Dean got hurt."

"M'okay, Dad," Dean rasped. He looked over to Sam and smiled weakly, his eyes were bloodshot and his face was pale in contrast to the reddening bruise around his neck.

"Help me get him back to the car," his dad said, voice dropping. He hauled Dean to his feet and waited for Sam take his other side.

For once, Sam got to sit in the passenger seat and he wished it were under different circumstances. Dean was laying out on the back seat, rubbing his neck and wincing. They were mostly silent as they headed back to the motel. His dad turned to Sam when they stopped at a traffic light.

"You okay, Sam?" he asked. Sam nodded but mostly because forming sentences seemed beyond him, his head was hurting too much. "I'm not mad at you, son, I just got real scared back there. You have make sure you're on the alert at all times so something like this doesn't happen."

Sam nodded again, but his head spiked with pain and he closed his eyes until it lessened. No one said anything after that.

The drive back to the motel was quicker than Sam remembered, but then again he wasn't concentrating very well. He was under Dean's arms again, helping him back to the room, but as soon as they got to the door Sam dropped to his knees and vomited in the bushes. He heard the door open then footsteps disappeared. He jolted when someone placed a hand on his back and rubbed gently.

"You done?" he dad asked, but his voices sounded odd, like he was speaking from the other end of a tunnel. "I think you've had a shock, kiddo. Dean's going to be fine."

His dad pulled him to his feet. He didn't remember entering the room but the next thing he knew he was sitting on the couch with a cup of water in his shaking hand. He stared at it but for the life of him he couldn't think what he was supposed to do with it.

"Sammy?" Dean was sitting up on his bed, "You good? You've been staring at that cup for ten minutes."

"M'good," Sam mumbled.

"Sammy, could you grab the first aid kit from the bathroom?" his dad's voice asked, Sam couldn't tell where it was coming from. He couldn't see where his dad was. Then he was in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. There was red around his nose and Sam wiped it away. His hand was already clasped around the first aid kit. He wasn't sure why he was getting it but he took it to his dad anyway. John was poking at Dean's neck, he turned and took the kit from Sam who sat down on the opposite bed.

"It's not as bad as it could have been," his dad was saying, he handed Dean a couple of pills. Dean swallowed them down with a wince. Sam frowned at his brother's bruises.

"What happened to your neck?" he asked. John and Dean looked at him with strange looks on their faces.

"Sam?" Dean said softly, but his voice sounded like it was tumbling away down a hole.

Sam blinked, the room seemed to split itself in two. "I've got a math test…" Sam suddenly remembered. His dad was right in his face, hands on his cheeks, fingers prying his eyes open.

There was something bright and his dad said, "Sam, did you hit your head?" He sounded so serious and Sam wasn't sure why, wasn't sure what the answer was because he couldn't remember the question. "Sam!"

"Dad, he's bleeding."

Someone was putting their fingers through his hair, feeling his scalp. Sam hissed because it hurt. His mouth tasted like metal and his upper lip was wet.

"Sam, can you hear me?"

And Sam said _yes_ but he wasn't sure why he was being asked, or who was asking. Then he could smell burning and someone saying _oh God_ then nothing.

* * *

"Sam? Sam!" Dean was hovering above him, he could see street lights whipping past, he could feel something wet in his ears, trickling into his hair. He saw black leather seats, a green army man. He didn't know where he was.

He closed his eyes again.

* * *

He heard beeping, someone was crying, something was buzzing, something feather light and dark drifted down onto his shoulders. He could smell burning but there were no flames.

"Yeah, he's seizing again…"

* * *

More beeping. No crying this time, just a hand brushing against his cheek. He wondered if this was what a mother's touch felt like, for a moment he wondered if he was dead. It took him longer than he should have to realise that the reason it was so dark was because his eyes were closed.

He couldn't open them. He couldn't move.

He drifted off again.

* * *

"He's doing well. The swelling has gone down significantly. He's still unconscious because his body needs time to rest. Waking up is up to him."

"But he'll be fine, right?"

"We can't be sure what the side-effects will be, or if they'll be long or short term. It's usual for someone who has suffered from TBI to experience side-effects."

"Yeah, you've been over this, Doc."

"I just want you to understand that he won't be 100% when he wakes up. He might experience mood swings, nausea, difficulty remembering things, decreased moto skills…"

"Okay, that's enough. I think we've…"

Sam was already gone.

* * *

"We feel just awful."

"If we hadn't asked you to investigate our house then none of this would have happened."

"Not your fault."

"Is there anything we can do?"

"Covering the medical expenses for my son in more than enough, Mrs Andrews."

"I hate to ask, but our house…"

"We have someone covering it for you, Ma'am."

"Thank you."

"No, thank you."

* * *

It was too bright. Sam dropped his lid enough that he could just about see. He rolled his head, taking in the entire room. Hospital, he gathered. Someone must have gotten hurt pretty bad.

"That would be you, doofus," Dean was there. Sam didn't think he'd spoken, but Dean was there and he was smiling at him. He placed a hand on Sam's cheek. "It's good to see you awake."

Sam opened his mouth because he had a million questions but he could only rasp. Dean placed a straw between Sam's lips and told him to sip it slowly. The water was a little lukewarm but it was wonderful nonetheless.

"You've been here for two weeks," Dean explained, "You had surgery because that big brain of yours was trying to puff itself out of your ears."

Sam wasn't sure what that meant, he'd only taken in the word _surgery_ and his hand was already finding its way to his head. Dean caught it and placed it back down on the bed.

"You've had a bit of a haircut," he said apologetically, "But at least now people will know you're not a girl."

He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. He was worried, that much was clear.

"I'm okay," Sam said quietly.

Dean shook his head, eyes tearing up. "You didn't see it. You were bleeding and… and you were saying weird things. You went into fucking convulsions."

"Sorry."

"Shut up."

"Sorry."

"I missed you, you little bitch. Try not to get hit in the head by decorative rocks from now on, huh?"

Sam shrugged. "I honestly have no idea what happened."

"Poltergeist?" Dean prompted. Sam shook his head. "Me getting strangled by a tie?" He shook his head again.

"Sorry… but who are you?" Sam asked. Dean's eyes blew wide. "I'm fucking with you, Dean."

"Jesus, man," Dean wiped a hand over his eyes. "That was not funny. Seriously. What's the last thing you remember?"

"Um… the waitress gave me extra pancakes," Sam recalled. Dean smiled, bright-eyed.

"You're okay," he said.

* * *

A/N Thanks for reading! I'll get the next one done when I can. Reviews are very much appreciated!


	11. Swallow Me Whole

This prompt comes from Kas3y who wanted alcoholic or addict Sam post Dean going to Hell or Purgatory.

I've decided to set this when Dean comes back from Hell in season 4. As much as I personally liked the demon blood story line, it'll be fun to see what might have happened to Sam if he hadn't gotten involved with Ruby.

* * *

When Sam opens his eyes, Dean is there. He smiles, Sam smiles. It's the first time Sam has seen him whole, no hellfire swallowing him, no screaming, no raw wounds. Dean is whole. And Sam can't help smiling.

"I've missed you," Sam says, he hears his own words rolling and twisting their way out of his mouth. Dean frowns and for a second Sam is afraid the fire might come after all. But there is none. There's a light behind Dean's head and Sam finally understands. "You're an angel. You're free."

The creases in the perfect skin of Dean's forehead deepen and he looks away from Sam. "Bobby, I think he's sick," Dean says. Or Sam thinks he says it, he's not entirely sure, he's not much sure of anything these days. He doesn't mind.

"I prayed," Sam tells Dean, he thinks Dean ought to know, "I prayed for you. I always prayed. I think it worked."

Dean isn't smiling and Sam is confused. He wonders if Dean heard him, he tells him again. But Dean isn't looking at him, he's looking away again, talking to someone over Sam's shoulder. "Bobby, help me get him up."

There are hands on him, then the room is moving and Sam is suddenly aware of his own weight. He feels so heavy like there is lead in his bones.

Dean says, "God, he's so skinny." Sam laughs a little because it makes no sense. Sam is the heaviest thing there is, heavier than a hell gate. His head is the heaviest, heavy, heavy, heavy. He feels it tip back but someone catches him and he's facing Dean again.

Sam reaches out, presses his fingers to Dean's cheek. He's always wondered what angels look like, what they feel like. He never thought they'd be so ordinary. So beautifully ordinary. Dean's skin is warm and bright and Sam wishes his could swallow it up like his little white-blue pills.

"He feels too warm, Bobby," Dean says, looking back over Sam's shoulder. "Should we take him to a hospital?"

Sam wants to close his eyes, wants to curl up warm in the angel's embrace and sleep forever. Somehow, Sam doesn't think Dean would let him, so he keeps looking at him, keeps admiring his light. Then there's the flicker of a shadow over Dean's shoulder. Sam tries to warn him but his words come out mangled.

The room fills with bright light and Sam is blind.

* * *

He opens his eyes, lashes fluttering against cold glass. He can see raindrops clinging to it, catching lights, red, yellow, green like rubies, ambers and emeralds. He watches the colours change, watches then slide down and away.

It's dark outside. The sky is creeping into bruised blues, turning black as the first stars make their appearance. Everything is so beautiful. He could sleep forever.

"Sammy?"

He knows that voice. Dean is here. Dean is supposed to be in Hell.

Sam turns his head to the side. His brother's face is looking at him hopefully and Sam knows what he wants, he knows what Hell wants from him. He claws at him. Maybe he can cast the demon out, he would do it with his bare hands if he had to, if that's what would save Dean. He feels himself swerve to the side, shoulder banging into the bejewelled glass. He can't feel the ground moving beneath him anymore. Only then does it occur to him that he doesn't know where he is.

He was in the motel room, wasn't he?

"Sammy, calm down!" it's Dean's voice, Dean's face, but Dean is in Hell, Dean is dead. Sam lashes out, hits him in the face, Not-Dean grunts. "Damn it, Sam! Do I have to clock you out?"

Words aren't working anymore. Sam is too far gone, he knows he is, but he never usually cares. He just swipes and cries. The world is wrong, bending in a strange shape. Not-Dean grabs his arms, holds him still, he feels cold air at his back then someone is leaning forward, holding his face.

"Bobby?" Sam asks, because he can't be sure, but he knows that baseball cap, he knows those eyes.

"It's me, son," Bobby says, he looks away from Sam, turns to Not-Dean, "What's going on?"

"I don't know," Not-Dean exclaims, he sounds scared, for a demon. "He woke up and he just freaked out on me. You sure we shouldn't go to the hospital?"

"We'll go to my place first," Bobby says, "See if we can't sort this ourselves." He stops and turns to Sam, "You with me, son?"

Sam thinks he's with him. He might not be, he's not with anything much these days, but that's how he likes it. But he's more concerned about the demon dressed up in his brother's skin, Bobby should be too, he tries to tell him. Words still aren't working.

"It's Dean, Sam," Bobby says. He must be able to translate Sam's tongue-tired language. "It's really him. I checked. It's Dean. He's alive."

It takes a moment for all of that to filter through. Sam does the math in his head. Dean plus alive equals… something. It equals something good. He looks away from Bobby, sees Dean. He trusts Bobby, Bobby knows a lot of things. Bobby knows that this is Dean.

Sam pushes himself up. Dean backs away a little, there are scratches on his face, but Sam leans forward, tips forward, into Dean's arms.

He wishes he could sleep there forever.

* * *

The world is clearer in the morning. Sam recognises the dark wood furniture of Bobby's spare room and tries to remember how he got there. Dean. Dean is alive.

Dean is _alive_.

He spent the past four months wishing for this but now it's so hard to accept. After everything Sam has done to forget and Dean is just suddenly back, alive and breathing. It's a little hard to believe. He begins to wonder if his mind is playing tricks on him again, as it has done so frequently for the past four months.

He rolls over. There's a glass of water on the nightstand and Sam gulps it all down in one go. His head still feels heavy on his shoulders and when he sits up straight he almost goes crashing back down again. He uses the wall to guide his way out into the hallway, then grips the banister tight on his way down the stairs.

He can hear talking in the kitchen but he can't really make out the words. He can smell coffee but it makes his stomach turn and he finds himself lurching back up the stairs and he's on his knees, chucking up bile into the toilet.

He feels like crap.

"You look like crap."

Dean is standing in the doorway, there's another glass of water in his hand. He watches as Sam gulps it all down.

"You should drink slower or you might be hurling again," he advises once Sam puts the glass down on the tiled floor. Then, he asks, "How are you feeling?"

"Shitty," Sam admits.

"We found you in Illinois," Dean says, "What were you doing there?"

Sam can't think of a good reason so he lies, "Hunting."

"Not in the state you're in," Dean says, "You're lucky we got there when we did, you were sick as a dog."

"Must be flu," Sam says, he can't look Dean in the eye when he speaks.

"Must have been," Dean agrees, "We'll get some fluids in you, let you rest, then you'll be as good as new."

"Yeah," Sam mumbles, as if it will be that simple. He finds his hand creeping towards his chest, as it does when he's feeling particularly nervous. His fingers find the amulet, all sharp angles against his skin. He tugs it off and holds it out to Dean.

"This is yours," he says. Dean's eyes widen at the sight of it, like he thought he'd never see it again. Maybe he did think that. Then again, Sam thought he'd never see his brother again. Dean takes it and puts around his neck. It looks so much better against his chest than it does against Sam's.

* * *

He doesn't know what time it is. He sleeps so much he can't remember when he was last awake, truly awake. But he wakes up with painful knots in his stomach that threaten to rise up into his throat. The bed sheet is sticking to his skin, glued on by his sweat. He finds himself stumbling through the dark, only barely getting to the bathroom.

Some of his vomit misses the toilet bowl but he doesn't have the energy to feel embarrassed. His hands are shaking as he tries to get himself upright. The light flicks on, it's piercing and sharp, invading his vision, and he has to squeeze his eyes closed.

"Aw jeez," he can hear Dean moan. Then there's shuffling, a hand on his shoulder, "Come on, back to bed, little brother."

Dean helps him back to the room, stumbling and slipping the whole way with him.

* * *

He can't sleep after that, the pain in his stomach is so bad. The shakes are worse; he can barely get a grip on the glass of water Dean hands him. Dean frowns and palms his head, says something about making soup. Sam twists away and tries to keep his insides in him.

He waits until Dean has left the room before he reaches for his bag. It has been lying at the end of his bed since they got there, staring at him, waiting for him. He struggles with the zip, almost cries because he can't get it open. When he does, finds the orange bottle where he left it, he feels so much relief that he feels guilty. But it's only short lived as he wrestles the cap off. There are three little pills lying at the bottom.

Sam swallows them all.

By the time Dean comes back, steaming bowl in hand, Sam is flying high. He laughs and talks with Dean, finishes all the soup. Dean smiles and remarks that Sam must be getting better, that some water and good food has done him good. Sam just smiles, feels himself dreaming while he's awake, then he falls into a deep, blissful sleep. He wonders why he went so long without.

* * *

It doesn't last. He's so high up, brushing his fingers against the clouds, then he's tumbling back down, ready snap his spine on the ground. There are moments when he wonders if he's still alive. Maybe he's a revenant. Maybe he's a junkie.

Dean is worried, he asks if Sam is sick again. Sam just nods, it's better than the truth. Bobby watches him from his desk, Sam can feel his eyes on him. He hears him talking to Dean. They're talking about him, he knows it.

They'll make him stop. He can't let that happen. He needs more. He needs the pills to function so Bobby and Dean stop asking questions. He gets Dean to drive him to the clinic, tells him it might be an infection. He tells the doctor he can't sleep.

"Have you ever taken Halcion?" she asks.

"No," Sam says. He holds his shaking hands between his knees. She doesn't notice and scribbles down a prescription for ten days. It's not enough, but it'll have to do.

She makes sure to tell him about the dangers of Halcion, he can't take more than he's prescribed. If he has any side effects he has to come back right away. Sam smiles at her and leaves. He smiles all the way to the pharmacy. He grins when the orange bottle is in his hand.

* * *

"The antibiotics not working?" Dean asks over breakfast.

Sam can feel Bobby's eyes on him. He tries to ignore him. "Maybe they'll kick in later," Sam says.

"You still look crappy," Dean says, he shakes his head and takes a sip of coffee.

Sam stares down at his full plate of eggs and bacon. The sight of it makes him feel nauseous. He stands up.

"Where are you going?" Dean asks.

"To get some air," Sam tells him and he hurries out the door. He snakes his way through the cars, finds a secluded spot at the back of the yard and he fishes the pill bottle from his pocket, swallows down a couple.

"So this is what you've been up to?" there's a woman standing a couple of feet away. She's small, dark, beautiful like nightshade. She looks at him, then to the bottle in his hand, and raises an eyebrow.

"What do you want, Ruby?" Sam asks tiredly.

"I want you to get off your lazy ass and do something about Lilith," She says.

"What makes you think I'm not doing something about her?" Sam retorts.

Ruby snorts. "Oh, please! Just look at you. You couldn't walk a straight line right now, could you?"

Sam doesn't bother denying it. He looks at his feet.

"So you're too good for demonic powers but you're not too good to chug down on happy pills?" she asks, "What would Dean think?"

"Like you care what he'd think," Sam spits.

She pauses, her face grows soft. "You're going to kill yourself, the way you're going," she says, she almost sounds concerned. Sam shrugs.

"Maybe," he says.

"You're fucked up, you know that, right?"

"Better than anyone."

She nods. Then she looks up at him and smiles. "If it's a high you want; I can get you one better than anything you could imagine."

"No thanks," Sam shakes his head.

She frowns. "If it's not about the high then what is it about?"

Sam cocks his head to the side, studies her. Her new body is pretty, he remembers in the beginning when she wouldn't leave him alone, she even found an empty vessel to make him happy. He steps forwards, brushes a hand through her hair, it's soft and shiny but he can smell the unholy taint in it, the lingering tinge of Hell's deepest pit.

"Talk to me, Sammy," she whispers. He leans forward and kisses her. She's wild and fiery, the taste of her. He would swallow it all if he had the energy. If he wouldn't rather swallow his little white-blue pills. He pulls back and she gazes up at him. "Tell me, Sam," she says.

Sam tells her. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas…"

* * *

It's a week later and Sam hasn't come down once, he made sure of it. He sleeps a lot of the time, and when he doesn't he flies. But each day it's harder to reach the right height, he needs more to get there. But it's okay, he can get more if he has to.

He sees things in the corner of his eye. Blonde curls and silk night gowns. He smells cookies baking, he smells leather and shaving cream. He talks to them sometimes and he feels less alone. Then he hears scuttling, lights flickering, and he makes sure to check the salt lines as often as he can.

He wakes up that morning with Jess' arms around him. She's gone by the time he opens his eyes. He showers, dresses, makes his way downstairs. Bobby and Dean are at the table. They don't look up at him, don't make greeting. Sam doesn't pay much notice as he slips into his seat.

Then there are hands on his shoulders, holding his still as Dean pries his eyes open.

"What the fuck!" Sam yelps, "Get off me!"

"Yeah, his pupils are blown," Dean says, but he's not speaking to Sam. The grip on his shoulders doesn't lessen as Sam struggles. Dean grabs his face, forces him to look at him.

"What are you on, Sammy?" he asks, too calm.

"What the fuck are _you_ on?" Sam growls, "Are you nuts? Let me go!"

"Not until you tell us," Dean says sharply, "How long, Sammy?"

"Have you gone insane?" Sam growls.

Dean shakes his head, eyes closed. He opens them at looks at Sam. "Tell me."

"Fuck you," Sam spits.

"So you won't mind if I look through your stuff?" Dean asks. Sam feels himself tense up, tries to grab at Dean's jacket as he heads for the door but his arm is way off. Dean pauses and stares at him.

"Do you even realise how messed up you are?" he asks, "Can you even hear yourself talking?"

"What are you on about?"

"You're slurring, Sam," Dean snaps, "You've been stumbling around like you're drunk for days. Sometimes I talk to you and I don't even think you're home. Sometimes you don't even seem to remember things you've said or stuff you've done."

Sam snorts, looks away.

"You met Cas two days ago when he showed up in the yard," Dean says, "You talked to him. An hour after he'd left you asked me about him, you said you wanted to meet him."

"You went into town with me for supplies last week," Bobby added, gripping Sam's shoulders tighter, "When we got back you asked me when I went to the store."

Sam doesn't know what to say. He doesn't remember meeting Cas. He was high when he met an _angel_. Ruby must have been right about him. He is messed up. He's demonic. The blood in his veins in unclean.

"Sam, are you listening?" Dean asks, he sounds like he's been talking for a while. He gazes at Sam then scowls, turns away. He's heading for the stairs, he's going to find them, he's going to take them away. Sam wrestles out of Bobby's grip, pushes the man roughly back, and runs after Dean. He lunges on him outside the bedroom door, tries to scramble for his bag.

But his muscles aren't cooperating. He feels sluggish and loose and Dean easily pins him down. He waits for Bobby to take his place before heading over to Sam's side of the room. He pulls out the drawers, checks under the mattress, under the loose floorboard. He looks in the bag last and finds the orange bottle. He stares at it for a moment and shakes his head, then holds it out for Bobby to see.

"This mean anything to you?"

Sam feels the weight shift on his back. It would be a perfect opportunity to overthrow him but he's too tired. He feels himself becoming drowsier.

"Balls!" Bobby curses.

"What? What is it?" Dean asks.

"That's Halcion. Triazolam. It's a benzodiazepine. A seriously potent sedative."

"Shit, Sammy," Dean breathes.

"It's highly addictive, banned in some countries," Bobby goes on, Sam can feel his eyes boring into the back of his head. He wishes he could tell them that this was the better option. It was this or going with Ruby. They should be thankful.

Dean crouches down, looks at Sam. "Why?" he asks. Sam wishes he could stop staring at the bottle in Dean's hand.

"I just need one," he whispers into the carpet, "Just one. Then I'll stop. I swear."

"God," Dean mutters. Then he gets to his feet, Sam listens to his footsteps, hears the bathroom door creak open.

"No," Sam says, then he begins to panic, "No! Don't!"

He hears the toilet flush, thinks of his little white-blue pills being sucked away, and he cries.

* * *

He's a prisoner. They've locked the door, barred the window. He doesn't remember them doing that, maybe he was asleep. He wishes he could sleep now. It's been a day without the pills and he just wants to sleep.

He glares at the tray on the bedside table. The bread must be going stale by now. He's not hungry. He doesn't think he'll ever be hungry again. He wedges himself onto the floor at the end of the bed and watches the door. He thinks of ways he could get out. There's nothing in the room to pick the lock with, Bobby and Dean had made sure of that. Maybe the next time someone comes in he can make his escape. He can get away. He can find _more_.

He hears footsteps and he creeps over to the door, slides up against the wall. He waits for it to open then lunges forwards but someone catches his arm in an iron-tight grip. The man squints at him like he's some puzzle to be solved, then he pulls Sam over to the bed and pushes him down. Sam doesn't think he has the energy to fight anymore, he sighs tiredly.

Sam looks at him. He looks like some kind of office worker in his suit and tie, the tan trench coat over the top hangs over his hunched shoulders. He's so normal, but there's something not… human about him. Sam supposes this must be Castiel.

"Sam, it's nice to see you again," Cas says, he releases his grip and takes Sam's hand in his, "The boy with the demon blood, I hear you don't remember our first meeting."

Sam winces, but he doesn't know if it's the pain of his words or just the tremors that have been plaguing him so much recently.

"Can you fix him or what?" Dean demands from the doorway. Cas seems to ignore him, just stares at Sam.

"I cannot fix this," he says, "It is not within my power, nor within my orders."

"What the hell does that mean?" Dean growls impatiently.

"It means I cannot help him," Cas says like he's repeating it to a child. Then he's gone.

* * *

Bobby helps him bathe. It would be humiliating if he hadn't already vomited all over himself only minutes earlier. The water is hot and the bathroom is steaming but still he shakes like it's minus one hundred.

He sits there, shivering, as Bobby drags the sponge over his back, squeezes it over his head to soak his hair. He's so gently, so careful, but he doesn't say a word.

"You're disappointed," Sam says, more like chokes because he's been falling to pieces for days and his voice was one of the first things to go, "You can say it."

"Yeah, I'm disappointed," Bobby admits. Sam shivers. "But I'm also sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there."

Sam shrugs. "Nothing to be sorry for."

"I should have been there after… after your brother was gone," Bobby says. He's towelling Sam's hair dry now; Sam squeezes his eyes closed as an ache builds in his head. He wants to tell Bobby that he wanted to be gone, and if Bobby couldn't find him, it was Sam's fault. Bobby sighs and says,"Why don't you come on down for dinner once you're dry and dressed?"

Sam shrugs. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about much anymore. He just wants to sleep.

He lets Bobby dry him, he's too weak to do it himself, he's too tired to care about standing naked in the bathroom in front of Bobby. He has to lean most of his weight on him as they make their way downstairs. He's already sweating through his clean pyjamas; he's still shaking hard enough that he can barely put his feet straight.

Dean looks up from the kitchen table where he's sipping at a glass of whiskey. He quickly puts it down when he sees Sam. Sam looks away and tries to concentrate on sitting down.

Dean clears his throat. "How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Like death warmed over," Sam replies bluntly. He stares at the table.

"Well, at least you're not on that crap anymore," Dean says, "Once you're clean and good, we'll get on stopping the seals from breaking."

"Sounds great," Sam mumbles. His headache worsens and he presses a hand to his eyes.

"Sammy?"

"I'm fine," Sam insists, but his words aren't coming out right, they sound heavy and limp. "I'm fine," he tries again. The room doesn't smell right either, it's sharp in his nostrils and he wants to gag but his whole body is not his anymore. He tips to the side and the floor is rising, rising, rising…

* * *

He knows he's in hospital before he opens his eyes. He knows the smells and sounds of it better than he'd like to. It doesn't frighten him, to know he's there, but the thing in his throat, coming out of his mouth, does. He jolts and tries to pull it away. Someone grabs his hand.

"Don't," Dean says, he looks tired, worn out like Sam is, "You weren't breathing so well. They put a tube in."

Sam frowns at him, glances around the room.

"You started seizing," Dean tells him, "You were close to falling into a coma."

Sam stares, hopes he can get across how sorry he is.

"It's our fault," Dean says, "Shouldn't have made you go cold turkey."

Sam shrugs as best he can.

"Don't be like that," Dean snaps, but there's no bite to his words, "Stop not caring. You need to care, the world is coming down on us and I need you to care. Please."

Sam shifts his hand onto Dean's, tries to squeeze it reassuringly. He listens to the ventilator push air into his lungs. It's strange to let something breathe for you, to give up something you've been doing your whole life. He would gag if he had the energy.

"They want to check you into rehab," Dean says suddenly. He looks at Sam carefully. "They can't do it unless you say you want to."

Sam quickly looks away and he hears Dean sigh. "Please, Sam," he says, "You need to be better again. I can't do this without you."

He doesn't know why Dean is asking him this when he can't even say yes or no. Sam closes his eyes and finds that he can sleep after all.

* * *

The place is white and clean. The staff smile a lot. The patients shake and whine and scratch at their arms. Sam doesn't belong here. His steps falter as he follows the doctor. Bobby and Dean grab his shoulders, steer him straight, he lets them.

He shares a room with a crack addict, he's skinny and twitchy, his eyes move around a lot and he accuses Sam of staring. Sam stares on purpose to freak him out and finds too much satisfaction from it. Bobby and Dean visit when they can, which isn't a lot of the time with the impending apocalypse and all. Sam feels guilty. He can't sleep.

He watches the news in the rec room. People have been found dead all over the country with their chests ripped open. It's a seal, he knows that much. Ruby tells him so when she sneaks into his room in a brand new body. She's a redhead this time.

"Come on, Sam, you need to go after the hell bitch," she says, she always says the same things before she gets bored and disappears again.

Sam spends a lot of his time lying in bed and wishing for sleep. It's normal, says his doctor, for someone to suffer from insomnia when they go through withdrawal from sedatives. Sam thinks it's some kind of fucked up joke. She frowns and writes something down when he tells her so.

She tells him things will get better, in time.

Sam doesn't believe her.

But she is right and Sam is wrong and he can't even bring himself to feel bitter about it. His head becomes clearer, his body becomes stronger, he gains weight, he doesn't shake anymore. He still thinks about the blue-white pills, he still dreams of them, he still wants them. But he doesn't need them.

And Dean doesn't stop smiling the whole ride back to Bobby's after they check him out of the centre. And Sam can't help but smile with him, even with the end of days on the horizon, at least they won this fight.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it, I really enjoyed writing it. Reviews are appreciated :)


	12. Maybe It's For The Best

This prompt comes from anonymous reviewer Jen: _For a prompt, I have actually been hoping to see a Stanford story where Sam is either critically hurt or very sick and Dean and John have to find out from an outsider (maybe Bobby or Jim). I would prefer this to either be before Jess or AU without Jess. Just guilty Dean and John because they weren't around and plenty of sick or hurt Sam!_

This is, obviously, set during the Stanford-era. Sam is twenty years old and in his second year of college.

This turned out 100xs more sad and angsty than I intended, oops.

* * *

She wails when the flames go up. She shrieks at them _you're making a huge mistake_ and _you will burn for eternity for this_ , and, really, it's a huge relief once she's burned away to wherever the hell ghosts go because she just wouldn't _shut up_.

She can preach to Dean about how he's going to hell as much as she likes but he'll probably meet her there one day because the psycho bitch had already killed three little kids before he and his dad had managed to get there.

He glances down into the grave where her bones are charring and he flips the bird like maybe she'll get the message even though she's already gone. They saved the fourth kid, at least. A little boy with soft brown hair and biggest doe eyes he's seen since Sammy was only small. She was telling the kid to jump out the window, and he was about to when John leapt into the room and blew her away with rock salt. The blast of it threw the kid off balance but Dean was half-hanging out the window below just in case and he caught the boy before he could have a meeting with the concrete pavement below.

John claps Dean on the shoulder and joins him as they look down at the blazing grave. "Good job, son," he says. Dean might be twenty-five years old, he spent his birthday filling a werewolf with silver bullets and it was awesome, but he can't help the goofy grin that spreads across his face. Of course, he's left with the job of filling the grave in so he doesn't see his dad back at the motel room for another couple of hours.

By the time he gets back, his feet are screaming at him, he's covered in dirt, and he's pretty much about to drop any second. He stumbles into the motel room, already shedding his jacket. He kicks the door shut behind him and trudges towards the bathroom, he pauses when he realises his dad is packing.

"I thought we weren't leaving 'til morning," Dean says.

"Change of plan," John tells him quickly, there's an edge to his voice that Dean can't quite decipher. "We're going to Palo Alto."

"Palo…" Dean blinks, it takes his dog-tired brain a moment longer to catch up. He finally puts two and two together. "Sammy. Is he okay?"

John pauses in sheathing his knife. He sighs heavily and drops it into the bag carelessly, turning to Dean. "He's sick, son."

"Sick?" Dean repeats, because things are taking him longer to process tonight. "You mean sick like ate-some-bad-seafood sick, or sick like swollen-tonsils-and-stuffy-nose sick?"

"Sick like we-need-to-be-there sick," John says. He speaks softly like he used to when Dean was five and didn't feel like talking and John was just trying to get him to say _something_.

"He's not…" Dean can't say it, "Is he, dad?"

"I don't know. I just know that Sam's real sick, has been for a while, and he needs us."

"I don't understand," Dean says helplessly because _Sam was supposed to be safe at school_.

"I'm not sure I do either," John admits, and he goes back to silently packing his bag. Within the hour, once Dean is clean and packed, they take the truck and the Impala on the road and drive south.

* * *

They had to stop in the night because Dean was close to falling asleep at the wheel, the car almost veered off the road but John honked his horn and jerked Dean awake. Now, Dean is passing the California state sign and his body aches from sleeping parked at the side of the road. John leaves him a message on his cell; they've still got a way to go before they get to Palo Alto so they're going to stop at the next diner they see.

The first diner is a couple of miles from any town, it's called Lulu's and it boasts the best pie on the west coast. Dean would be willing to test that if he didn't feel so sick to his stomach with worry. The place is mostly occupied by truckers chugging down coffee but there are plenty of free booths and John and Dean drop tiredly into the nearest one. The place their orders and wait.

"You still haven't actually told me what's wrong," Dean says.

"Sam's sick," John replies, he's writing in his journal but Dean can't see what because his dad's hand is in the way.

"I already know that," Dean sighs, frustrated, "But what exactly is wrong with him? I need to know if this is, you know, life-or-death."

John's scribbling pauses and he looks up. "I don't know the details, Dean," he says, "Jim called me last night and told me that Sam was sick, had been for a while. He said that Sam begged him not to tell us, but things are worse recently and Jim had to break his promise."

"Did he say what it is?" Dean asks hesitantly.

John shakes his head. "It was a short conversation. It seems like Jim's been helping Sam out financially since he's not fit to work. Apparently, Sammy's still in school but Jim's concerned he might not be able to keep it up the way things are going."

Dean scrubs a hand over his mouth, his mind is already wandering off to dark places. He thinks of Sam in a wheelchair, Sam with his hair falling out, Sam puking up his insides, all pale and bloody and _dying_. The waitress arrives with their orders, toast and eggs for Dad, bacon and maple pancakes for Dean. He glances down at the plate, noticing the greasy sheen on the ceramic. He picks at his food; he doesn't feel hungry anymore.

* * *

Dad knows where Sam lives. Of course, Dad knows, Dad knows everything. Dean knew where Sam's dorm was last year, he'd even been in there in one of the few occasions he had visited before they cut ties properly. That hadn't been too long ago, only several months. Was Sam sick back then? Had he not told Dean? Even worse, did Dean not notice?

Accommodation-wise, Sammy seems to have gotten himself an upgrade, Dean thinks as he parks behind his dad beside a small apartment building. A couple of students come out, they're holding hands and carrying heavy-looking bags. They smile and laugh together, they seem happy. The whole place is bright and sunny, everything seems brighter with the yellow-stone buildings and the fresh green trees, it's easy to see why Sam had wanted to come here.

He follows John's lead up the path. Dean scans the bells and their occupant's names until he finds _Winchester_ at the bottom. 1b, a room on the first floor. More thoughts are making their unwelcome way into Dean's head, is Sam on the ground floor because he can't use stairs anymore?

Meanwhile, John is picking the lock with a skill Dean has always envied, passers-by would never suspect anything out of the ordinary. Sam's door is right in his face once he's inside, 1b stares at him to his right, it stares at him harder while he waits for John to break in.

It's a small apartment, but big enough to even fit a sasquatch like Sam. It's all one room, with a kitchenette and two-person dining table in one corner and a bed in the other. The walls are bare and most of the action seems to be taking place on the desk by the bed where there's a mountain of books and a spread of papers and notebooks. What a nerd.

John shuffles around the kitchen, checking through the cupboards, and Dean heads over to the bathroom. The bath is about half the length of Sam but at least there's a stand-in shower. He notices some fruity-looking shampoos and can't help smiling. "Smellin' like strawberries, Samantha?"

The contents of the cupboard above the sink wipes the smile off his face. Orange bottles, a crap load of them. He twists them all around to scan the labels; Diltiazem, Adenosine, Sildenafil, Macitentan, Spironolactone, Warfarin…

Some are fuller than others, looking abandoned at the back of the shelf. He squints at the section marked _side effects_ and almost immediately regrets it. The visual proof it like a hard smack in the face; Sam is sick. There's no denying it anymore. All these long, complicated words and Dean still doesn't know what's wrong with his brother.

He almost jumps out of his skin when his dad appears at his shoulder, looking at the bottles.

"You know what any of that means?" Dean asks.

"No," his dad answers, "We'll just have to wait for him to come back."

"He's gonna be pissed," Dean says, wandering back into the main room and dropping down on the edge of Sam's bed. He's still bone-tired and desperate for some sleep, but sleep has to wait, it's not like he hasn't run on less. A framed photo on the bedside table catches his eye. It's their mom and dad, they're smiling, Dean smiles as he remembers times like those. This photo is Sam's only indicator that times like those even existed. He's about to pick it up to get a closer look when he hears a key scrape the front door's lock. It opens and Sam steps in. The first thing he says is, "I leave to take my trash out back for five minutes and you psychos break in."

He tosses his keys onto the desk and glares at the two of them. "By the way, those monster cars you drive are kind of a giveaway."

Dean's too busy staring at the kid, noting that he's walking and talking, has all of his hair and limbs. He's looking a little pale and breathless, shoulders heavy and eyes bruised-looking. When no one else does, John speaks instead.

"We came to see you."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Seriously?" he walks right by them to the kitchenette and grabs a glass from the cupboard. He fills it with tap water and takes a long drink. "Last time we spoke, you made it really clear you didn't want to see me again."

John ignores that and says, "Jim called me."

Sam freezes, glancing down at the half-empty glass in his hand. "He had no right to do that," Sam says softly, breathlessly. He places the glass on the bench and leans against the counter, taking a deep breath. His hand snakes up to his chest, and he bows his head. It takes Dean a moment to realise that the way Sam's mouth is set is an indicator that he's in pain. He hurries over and directs him to the kitchen chair.

"What's going on?" he asks worriedly.

"Nothin'," Sam gasps, fingers curling into his shirt.

"Don't _nothing'_ me, Sammy," Dean snaps, "Let me help you, you idiot."

Sam shakes his head. "It'll pass," he promises, teeth gritting together, "Gimme a minute."

They wait. It doesn't last long, whatever's hurting Sam, and soon enough he's rubbing his chest and relaxing into the chair with deep breaths. Eventually, he dares to look up at them.

"Can you get something for me?" he asks, the hesitancy in his voice makes it clear how much he'd rather not ask for their help.

"Anything," Dean replies, one foot already inching in any direction.

"Under the bed," Sam gasps, Dean notices his lips are a little blue, "There's, um, oxygen and… just bring all the stuff that's under the bed."

Dean hurries over and dips down. John, who was standing closer to the bed than Dean was, doesn't move. Dean finds a bunch of tubes and other scary medical machines. He hauls them all out and places them on the table in front of Sam. Sam slowly starts setting things up, by the time he's done he's wearing a nasal cannula and breathing better.

"I should probably have been wearing that anyway but I didn't think it would matter since I was only going outside for two minutes," he says, mostly to himself.

"Sam, what is this?" John asks, he's staring at Sam. John Winchester never stares.

"Pulmonary Hypertension," Sam says, "Means my lungs are fucked up."

"Kinda guessed that," Dean mumbles, gesturing to the oxygen tank.

"So, you hear to weep at my bedside or what?" Sam asks, fiddling with the tube around his neck.

"We came to see how you were," John says, he sounds a little angry, Dean inches a little between them, "Jim told me you were seriously sick, of course I'd come to see you, you're my son."

Sam glares at him. "Am I? You pretty much told me to stay gone, Dad. That's not something you say to your son."

"I do my best to keep you safe, damn it!" John snaps, "Do you really think I don't give a damn about you?"

"Guys!" Dean yells before Sam can open his mouth, "It's been five minutes and you're already down each other's throats. Quit it, alright?"

Sam looks away and John softens. "Sammy, I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I made you feel like you couldn't ask us for help."

Sam gives a small nod.

"We good then?" Dean asks, everyone nods. Dean will take what he can get. He turns back to Sam, "So you've got pulmonary hyper-something?"

Sam sighs. "Pulmonary Hypertension," he corrects, "High pressure in the arteries in my lungs. Means I can't breathe too well, means my hearts working too hard, means it's going to fail one day."

And isn't that just a real kick in the jewels. Maybe Dean was getting cocky by thinking this wouldn't be something terminal. No one speaks, Dean and John because they're still processing it, and Sam because he's too busy trying to breathe.

"But they can do something, right?" Dean finally says, "Doctors can do something."

"I'm on meds," Sam says, "But the only thing that's going to fix it is a transplant."

Dean perks up. "Okay, so we get you some working lungs."

Sam smiles at him softly. "It's not that easy."

"Sure it is, people die all the time, have one of their lungs."

Sam closes his eyes briefly. "Yeah, but not everyone's a donor. There are only about a thousand transplants per year, Dean, do you know how many people are waiting for them?"

"But you can get one," Dean presses, he knows he's starting to sound desperate but he doesn't really care at this point.

"I'm on the list," Sam shrugs, "But I my hearts kinda messed up too, they won't risk a lung transplant if my hearts going to give out anyway. I need a heart-lung transplant and they're not exactly growing them on trees so I'm not getting my hopes up, I'm just trying to graduate."

Dean's skin grows hot. "What the hell is the point of finishing college if you won't even be around to use that fancy degree?" he growls, "Forget school!"

"This is what I want to do with my life," Sam grinds out, "Or at least how much of my life I have left. At least one day I might be able to say I graduated from Stanford, even if I'm lying in my deathbed two weeks later."

"Jesus, Sam – "

"Boys, enough!" John snaps, he turns to Dean, "This isn't helping."

Sam chuckles a little. "Well, I think we got all the arguments out of the way."

"We're a messed up bunch, huh?" their Dad laughs. Dean finds it hard to find the humour.

"Hey," Sam pipes up suddenly, "Did you know the first heart-lung transplant happened here in Stanford in 1981 for a patient with Pulmonary Hypertension?"

"Oh really?" Dean had to admit that was kinda cool, "They survived, right?"

"Yeah, it was successful."

"Good to know."

"Yeah."

Sam sighs and gets to his feet. "I was planning on sleeping before you guys turned up, but I don't think I can change my plans, I'm kinda exhausted."

"Get some sleep then," Dean encouraged, he followed Sam over to the bed, hands reaching out a little just in case. Sam shrugged away from him and dropped onto the edge of the bed, tugging his shoes off.

"Taking out the trash is real tiring," Sam joked as he lay down, "No offense, but it's kinda creepy if you watch me sleep…"

His eyes were already drifting closed, "Would you mind switch it to the mask?" he asks, gesturing lazily to the cannula. Sam's already sleeping when Dean figures out how to switch it, and he doesn't even wake up when Dean unhooks the tube from his nose and places the mask over it instead.

There's no beer in the fridge, what with Sam being a sick kid and all, so John and Dean sit at Sam's tiny kitchen table and sip coffee as they watch their youngest sleep on the other side of the room, taking comfort in the way his breaths fog the mask.

"This is shitty," Dean remarks. John grunts his agreement.

"I mean, we have to do something," Dean goes on, "We can fix this, right?"

John doesn't say anything.

"We know stuff doctors don't know, we could find a hoodoo priest or a witch or a – "

"Dean," John warns, "Stop."

Dean stares at him incredulously. "We're doing something about this," he says sharply, "You heard what he said; his heart's gonna give out one day. I'm not just sitting around and letting my little brother die."

"Dean, finding a fix for this means leaving," his dad says, "I'm not leaving him."

Dean blinks at him. He knows his dad better than anyone else in the world but there are still times when up is down and down is up when it comes to John. Dean had expected his dad to agree with him, his dad is always figuring things out and now he just wants to do nothing?

"And what can we do if we just stay here, huh?" Dean demands, "I don't want to leave him any more than you do but we have to make him well again, _then_ we can hang out with the dork as much as we like."

John sighs wearily. "I tossed my kid out," he says, "I told him not to come back and now he's sick and I wasn't there for him. Your mom would kick my ass if she were here."

"You were trying to keep him safe," Dean defended.

"I try to do a lot of things but it never really works out how I plan," his dad admits, "I wanted this whole thing to be over, kill the demon, give you boys the life you deserve. I can't keep making promises I can't keep, especially to Sammy."

"If you won't do something, I will," Dean says.

* * *

John sits by Sam when he wakes. His face is mostly covered by the oxygen mask and that ridiculous mop of hair hanging over his face. It's been two hours since Dean left and the sun is setting outside. Sam's eyes flutter tiredly as he glances around before focusing on John.

"Dad…" Sam breathes, voice muffled by the mask, he closes his eyes for a long second before hoisting himself a little upright, he leans heavily against the headboard, "Hey."

"Hey," John says with a smile, for a moment he can forget the last ugly encounter they'd had between them before Sam left for school.

Sam glances around again. "Where's Dean?"

He looks so hopeful that John's almost tempted to lie. "He's gone," he tells him honestly, "He's going to find a way to get you better."

Sam lets out a raspy laugh. "Unless he's got some spare lungs and a heart he's not going to get far," he grunts, fiddling around for the nasal cannula. He takes off the mask and replaces it with the tube, leaning back to look at John.

" _Our_ kind of help, Sammy," John says. Sam's eyes would be blown wide if they weren't so drooped with fatigue.

"He can't do that," he gasps, "How stupid can he be?"

"He knows what he's doing," John assures, "Dean's more capable than you think."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I know he's capable, but things like this never come without a price. I don't want to be responsible for something like that!"

He's getting too worked up, lips turning a little blue and John pulls the bed covers up over him and shushes him gently. "You need to calm down, son," he says, "Don't worry about it. We've got some people who owe us. We'll get you better, you'll see."

Sam glares at him and it's clear that he doesn't believe John any more than John does. He leans forwards slightly, face softening. "Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid," he says, "When I'm not here anymore. Promise me you won't leave him. You know how hard it'll be for him when I'm gone."

"Sammy…"

"Promise me."

John isn't sure what hurts more; the fact that Sam is dying and he knows it or the fact that he doesn't seem to think John will be as broken by it as Dean will be. He wants to tell Sam just how much it will kill him when he dies, he wants to tell him just how much it has always killed him to know what that demon did to Sam and what would happen to him if he lived long enough. He doesn't say any of this, he says, "I promise."

He cooks Sam dinner that night, his cooking skills are a little rusty but Sam eats it all which is a good sign to John, and he makes sure Sam takes all of his medication, then gets him into bed. Sam has trouble getting around on his own he's so weak and out of breath, but Sam promises him it isn't always like that, he was just dumb enough to go out for five minutes without any oxygen, normally Sam gets around fine on his own. John isn't sure he believes him.

"Jim told me he's been helping you out," he says. Sam rolls onto his side under the covers and looks up at him.

"Just with money and bills," Sam says, "I'm going to try to pay him back but… I don't know how yet."

"Has anyone been helping you out here?" John asks, "Getting around and stuff like that?"

Sam glances away awkwardly. "Um, my friends. Zach brings me notes and assignments and picks up groceries sometimes. And Becca, his sister, she comes over and cleans or cooks or just generally fusses."

"Sounds like you've got some good friends," John remarks. Sam nods, John sighs, "I'm sorry you thought you couldn't ask me for help. That was… I'm sorry."

"Is that what you're doing now?" Sam asks, "Are you helping me now to make up for it?"

John shakes his head and brushes his fingers through Sam's hair. Sam looks a little surprised at first but he relaxes into it. "I'm helping because I'm your father and I just want you to be okay."

"I'm not okay, Dad," Sam reminds him softly, as if that oxygen mask isn't enough of a reminder, "I mean, I could die years from now or months from now, but one way or another this illness is going to get me."

Sam pauses, then says, "Dad, please don't cry."

John hadn't realised he was.

* * *

 _A month later_

Sam listens to his dad on the phone as he brushes his teeth. He pauses, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, and he leans against the bathroom door. It sounds like Dean's magically-cure-Sammy plan isn't going very well judging by the exasperated noises their dad is making.

"We can get Bobby to look into it… yes, I'm well aware that me and Bobby aren't on the best of terms but this is about Sam… no, I don't think so… he seems better lately, yeah, he's eating fine, getting around fine… look, Dean-o, just come back to Palo Alto, okay?... because Sam needs you _here_ … Dean… Dean, that's an order… good, I'll see you in a couple of days."

Sam hears footsteps coming in his direction and he tiptoes back to the sink and pretends he's been brushing his teeth the whole time. The door pops open and his dad sticks his head around.

"You doing okay in here?" he asks.

Sam spits into the sink then looks at John in the mirror. "I'm just brushing my teeth," he says, "I'm fine. Would you mind knocking next time?"

"Sure," John says, breaking out into a sly grin, "So long as you quit eavesdropping on my phone calls."

And he disappears again, clicking the door shut behind him. Sam blinks at himself in the mirror. How the hell did he know that he was listening in? God, he swears his dad knows everything. He rinses his mouth and spits, the dabs his mouth dry on the towel hanging to his right.

He inspects his reflection; his dad is right that he's been better lately, there's no blue tinge around his mouth anymore and he doesn't look so tired these days. It's been really helpful having his dad around almost all the time. Miraculously they haven't bitten each other's heads of yet, in fact, it's been kinda nice. He feels safe when he goes to sleep at night, that's for sure.

The tube running under his nose is something he can't really get used to, the one giveaway that he's sick sits smack bang in the centre of his face. He wishes it wasn't there because everyone on the street stares, even other students in class, it's worse with waitresses or shop assistants who fuss over him like he's mentally deficient. But, he kinda needs the tube there to breathe and, you know, not die.

He's feeling a little giddy when he leaves the bathroom and says, "So Dean's coming back?"

"He's on his way," John confirms, sorting through some cash at the kitchen table. Sam had asked his dad where the money came from but he hadn't gotten a straight answer, he hadn't bothered asking about it again.

"We could go to that diner we went to the other week," Sam suggests, "I reckon he'd like it there, especially that redhead waitress."

"We could do that," his dad agrees, smiling. Sam gins back because, fading mortality or not, he feels like a real family for the first time in, well, ever. It's great, even if he's clinging onto his scholarship with poor attendance and he's sharing a tiny apartment with his dad, he feels _normal._

His dad gets to his feet and grabs a few bills off the table, shovelling the rest back into a paper bag that he keeps under the kitchen sink, and pats Sam on the shoulder. "I'm going to the store, okay? I'll be back soon."

Sam waves him out the door and sinks down onto the couch, flipping open one of his school text books. He pauses mid-paragraph when he sees his dad's duffel lying unopened with his journal sticking out, The Journal, the one Sam and Dean are rarely allowed near and can barely decipher when they are.

He places his text book down on the couch seat beside him and leans forward to snatch up the journal. It's a bulky thing, crammed with scrawled writing and newspaper clippings. He lingers at the front of the book where a photo of his mother is clipped. Dean looks a lot like her, he looks a lot like the perfect mix of her and their dad, sometimes Sam wishes he looked a little more like his parents. He doesn't have any clue where he got his eyes from. He flips through, scanning whatever grabs his interest.

He stops when he lands on a small entry under the date his brother and dad first arrived.

 _Feb 17._

 _Maybe it's for the best._

And that's it. Sam re-reads it a few times, just in case there's some hidden message he missed. Nothing. What the hell does that mean? That has to be about him, right?

 _Maybe it's for the best._

Maybe what's for the best? Maybe it's for the best that Dean left to find a cure or maybe it's for the best that John stays and Dean goes. Or maybe it's for the best that Sam is dying. Suddenly, that perfect, limited existence that Sam had had is gone. Suddenly, Sam doesn't feel so safe anymore.

* * *

Dean lets himself into Sam's apartment. He expects yelling, he expects Sam and John at each other's throats, he doesn't expect silence. John has his nose in his journal, sitting at the table in the kitchenette, Sam is lounging on his bed with a book on his lap and a tube running under his nose.

"This is… civil," Dean remarks. Sam looks up and smiles.

"Hey," he greets, he looks relieved. Dean glances over to his dad, takes in the peace and quiet in the room, and wonders what's happened.

"Uh, hey," he replies, dropping his bag by the door, "How you doing, Sammy?"

Sam shrugs. "Still breathing," he says, eyes flicking over to John briefly, "Come on, let's go out for dinner."

Dean blinks. "Go out?" he repeats, Sam is already getting up, slipping the strap of the oxygen tank over his shoulder.

"Yeah," Sam says like Dean's stupid, "You know, like a diner. There's this one place you'll like down the street."

"Uh, okay," Dean shrugs, "Let's go then."

Sam is already opening the door, not even glancing back to check if their dad is coming. Sam waits for him by the impala while Dean waits for his dad to catch up.

"Is everything okay?" he asks John quietly.

His dad shrugs. "He's been acting weird for the past couple of days, won't look me in the eye, seems jumpy."

"Huh," Dean sighs, "I'll talk to him."

Their waitress is this super-hot redhead with plump pink lip-glossed lips, and one of the greatest pair of breast Dean has ever encountered. Sam nudges him when he stares too long but the waitress doesn't seem to mind and writes her phone number on his napkin when she brings his burger, which is also goddamned delicious.

He waits for John to go to the bathroom before talking to Sam.

"You okay, dude?" he asks.

"Yeah," Sam nods. He seems worse than he was back at the apartment, he seems pale and he's wheezing.

"Something happen with you and Dad?"

Sam's eyes go straight to the table. Gotcha, Dean thinks. He's not surprised that his dad did something to upset Sam without even noticing. Sam's a little sensitive like that.

"What happened with Dad?" he asks.

Sam purses his lips together, thinking. He hasn't seen Sam this wound up over their Dad in a long time.

"I don't…" Sam pauses, "Okay. I read his journal."

Dean shrugs, it's not like he hasn't done that plenty of times himself.

"Under the date that you guys first showed up here he wrote, _maybe it's for the best_ ," he stops and looks at Dean, waiting for an answer or a reaction. Dean isn't sure he follows.

Sam sighs and goes on. "He's talking about me. Maybe it's for the best that I'm sick, that I'm dying."

Dean is speechless, for a second he isn't sure if he heard correctly but Sam is looking at him with this anxious look on his face as he waits for an answer. Dean sighs.

"Sammy, I know you're kinda oxygen deprived a lot of the time now and maybe that big brain of yours is a little slow or something," he says, "But Dad _isn't_ glad that you're sick, alright?"

"But why would he write that?" Sam demands, his breaths are shorter now.

"You're just thinking too much," Dean brushes it off, "You're tired and sick and there's nothing to worry about. I bet by the time you wake up in the morning you'll be laughing about it. I mean, come on, Sam, this is ridiculous."

Sam shrinks back into the booth, looking away from Dean, he looks hurt and his eyes are glossy. Sam blinks rapidly and turns away to discreetly wipe at his eyes. Dean rubs his brother's back in sympathy, the poor kid is really tired.

"Sorry I skipped out on you," Dean says softly, "I know I should have stuck around least to tell you I'd be gone, it's just that I'd never forgive myself if I didn't try to do something."

"It's okay, I get it," Sam shrugs, "Just… don't leave again, okay?"

"I won't," Dean promises.

"So, how was the search for the miracle cure?" Sam asks.

"I will find something, Sam, I promise."

Sam looks at him sadly. "I know.

* * *

 _Four months later_

There's this pager Sam has to keep on him at all times now. If he's lucky enough for some poor stranger to die, then the pager will go off and he can go get a new heart and set of lungs. Things have gotten worse.

It started not long after Dean first came back, not long after Sam had told Dean about his fears and Dean had just brushed it off like it was nothing. Sam doesn't exactly remember what happened but he remembers waking up in hospital with a tube sticking out of his mouth. They took it out pretty quick, put the cannula back where it had been sitting for almost a year.

Dean kept going on about how everything would be fine and that he would find a way to fix everything. The doctor begged to differ and told Sam that he was now on the critical list for a transplant, which basically meant that Sam's time was seriously running out.

Where Dean was holding back tears, his dad was actually crying.

 _Maybe it's for the best_.

And maybe it is. Once Sam is gone, the two of them can go back to saving the world instead of taking care of Sam who is no longer able to get up and take a piss. At least he was allowed to come home, his apartment may be small but it's _his_. He'd much rather die here than in a hospital. School is out of the question, of course, they're putting Sam's scholarship and schooling on hold. He reckons they're just being nice to a dying man when they know he's never going to graduate anyway.

He's lying in bed, because that's all he can to now, with the full mask over his mouth, because that's how it is these days, and he stares at the pager and imagines it going off.

Dean is cooking in the kitchen even though no matter what he's making Sam won't be able to eat much of it. Their dad is sitting on the couch, in the middle of his hundredth phone call of the day trying to find a cure. For a guy who think _maybe it's for the best_ he sure puts a lot of effort into keeping Sam living.

"Want mushroom in your pasta sauce, Sammy?" Dean calls. Sam isn't sure why he bothers asking when he knows Sam hasn't got much breath left for talking. He just holds his thumb up, even though he's not bothered about mushrooms in his pasta sauce. He closes his eyes for a moment, lets himself drift.

Dean shakes him, a little too hard because he probably thought Sam bit it in his sleep. He lets out a heavy breath when Sam opens his eyes and says, "Soup's on."

Sam nods and lets Dean help him sit upright. He lets him spoon a couple of pieces of pasta into his mouth before turning away and pulling the mask back down.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean pleads, "You need your strength. You're too thin."

Sam laughs on the inside because there's not enough breath left to do it on the outside. He pushes the hand holding the fork away. Dean reluctantly sets the bowl down on the bedside table.

"You want to go back to sleep?" he asks quietly, smoothing out the sheets.

Sam shakes his head, mimics writing with his hands.

"You want to… write?"

Yes.

Dean fetches a pad and pen from Sam's unused desk and sets it down on his lap. Even writing is hard, even when it's just one word. He shows Dean the paper.

"Beach?" Dean reads, surprised, "You want to go to the beach?"

Sam nods.

Dean frowns, looking unsure. "I don't know, Sammy. Maybe that's not the best idea."

Sam grabs the front of Dean's shirt and looks at him pleadingly. He just wants to go outside; he just wants to see a freaking sunset over the ocean one last time. Please. Dean must get it because he nods, cards his fingers through Sam's hair and says, "Okay, Sammy."

Moving a seriously sick person two blocks over to the beach is difficult. Well, Sam assumes it is, he's not the one doing the moving anyway. Sam might weigh as much as a bag of bones these days but John and Dean have to manoeuvre oxygen and all of the tubes that come with it. Dean has wrapped him up in his leather jacket, some sweats and two pairs of socks. Oxygen-deprivation can make a person a little chilly. They carry him as delicately as if he were a new-born and lay him out in the back seat of the Impala with his head on Dean's lap as their Dad drives.

One last drive, Sam thinks. He closes his eyes, smiling as he feels the engine rumble beneath them, it's like being home again. He doesn't remember arriving at the beach but when he opens his eyes he's being lifted out of the car and he can see the ocean.

They've found a secluded spot hidden by rock pools and his dad and brother carefully place him down on the sand. John sits behind him, keeping him upright while Dean fusses about, tucking him into wool blanket that's been in the Impala's trunk for as long as Sam can remember.

Dean pulls Sam's socks off when he notices Sam trying to dig his toes into the sand, then he sits down next to the two of them, leans in. Sam takes in a thin breath and smiles, watching the sun dip slowly down. The sky is bright orange and pink, lighting up the sky like it's on fire.

They sit there for a while, John and Dean talk as Sam listens to stories of hunts he missed, of times when they were young, they even talk about Mary. As Sam lies against his dad he wishes he could tell him that he forgives him, that if he meant what he wrote in his journal then he understands. He wonders if his dad has felt this uncleanliness in him as long as Sam has.

 _Maybe it's for the best_.

If this is the end, Sam thinks it's a good way to go. That is, until there's a tight pain in his chest. He is so weak that it takes John and Dean a while to even notice something's wrong. He can barely lift a hand but he's trying to grip his chest. Then he's choking and he can taste metal.

"Oh God!" Dean cries. He's being pushed onto his side and he coughs all over the sand, turning it red. Dean keeps yelling and Dad is holding his head, Sam thinks he's speaking to him but he can't really make out the words.

He turns his eyes to watch the sunset, the sun has almost disappeared. It's the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes. The last thing he feels is vibration in his front pocket, the last thing he hears is the beeper going off on the pager telling him he has a new heart and lungs.

* * *

A/N Told you it was sad and angsty. I hope you liked this chapter, I think there's only a few more prompts left before Sam-centric Reader's prompts is done. I might re-open prompts one day when I'm not working on a million multi-chapter fics at once, I know I have a problem. The past couple of prompts have been kinda depressing so maybe I'll try to insert something more light-hearted some time?


	13. School's Out

Yikes... it's been how many months since I filled a prompt? Hopefully, I can finish the last few. I think there will be a total of 20 chapters to this prompt series. I'd like to re-open prompts some day again and I'd like to use a theme or a challenge of some sort. But for now, here's a new prompt-fill.

This prompt comes from Aziza Maye: _I know how much you like preshow so my prompt takes place when they are both in school. I will leave it up to you on what their ages will be. During lunch a couple of bullies start causing trouble. Dean is stuck in the cafeteria with everyone else, but Sam. So it's up to Sam to save his brother, and everyone else._

* * *

The library is empty at lunch. Honestly, it's empty most of the time. Maybe that's why Sam likes it so much, this way he doesn't have to talk to anyone. Not that anyone actually wants to talk to him. Except for maybe Mrs Dill the librarian, and even then she's adamant about the no talking rule.

She smiles at Sam a lot, always asks if he needs anything. Sometimes, she brings him a cookie wrapped in foil that she'd baked herself. After the first one, Sam wrote her a quick thank you note on a torn scrap from his notebook and left it on her desk with a daisy he'd picked outside his motel. He didn't have anything else to give.

God forbid Dean ever found out. Sam would never live down the fact that his only friend in this crap-town is the sixty-year-old librarian.

It's been almost a month and Sam has spent every lunch break in the library with Mrs Dill. From his first ever period at this school his classmates had made it clear he wasn't welcome. The toilet paper hanging from his backpack (which he didn't notice until he got back to the motel) and the words he found written on his locker every week said as much.

Who knew there were so many offensive variations of the word _gay_?

And Sam knows they're all just nasty, dumb kids who don't know anything. But it still hurts. And he still cries when he's in the shower because that's the only place no one will see.

That morning he found _queer_ printed across his locker, thicker and blacker than any time before. And he didn't bother trying to clean it. He didn't bother telling a teacher. None of that made a difference. Sam's dealt with his fair share of bullies. For whatever reason, being poor is _uncool_.

As if Sam gives a crap what's cool. As if he cares if people think he's gay. It just isn't fair that people treat him like dirt when he's never even done anything wrong.

Dean doesn't deal with this. Sam's seen him around school with a girl under his arm and guys in baseball shirts following him around like he's managed to work his way to the top of the pack. Dean always grins or winks when he sees Sam. Sam doesn't have the heart to tell him what's going on. Dean actually looks happy at school for once in his life. He shouldn't have to deal with Sam's problems.

Besides, Sam's old enough to look after himself. He's been hunting monsters since he was nine. He can handle this.

Thank God Dean never goes down to the junior side of school. Thank God he never sees Sam's locker. Sam really wouldn't want to deal with the massacre Dean would commit if he did.

Glancing up at the clock, he sighs. There's still half an hour of lunch left. His next class is Math with Mr Woodrow, one of the strictest teachers Sam's ever come across in all of the schools he's been to. And that's saying something. No one dares speak in Woodrow's class. No one would dare mess with Sam for fear of Mr Woodrow catching them at it.

Sam loves Math.

He glances down at his notebook. He's finished all of his homework and it's not even due until next week. His stomach growls, and in the silence of the library Mrs Dill hears it from all the way across the room.

"Have you had lunch yet, Sam?" she asks, raising an eyebrow critically.

"Um." Sam considers lying but it doesn't feel right to lie to the only person in school who actually treats him like a person. Besides, his stomach already gave him away. "No, miss."

She purses her lips, frowning. It's not anger, definitely not that. She's worried. Maybe pitying. "Go and get something to eat, Sam."

Sam slowly closes his books and folds up his notes. "Um. I don't have anything."

There's that pinched expression again on Mrs Dill's face. Sam shrinks under the weight of it, wishing he could melt into the floor and never come back. "Oh, dear," she says, sighing. She leans over and rummages around in her purse. It's this ugly floral thing with a metal chain, just about big enough that she could cram Sam in there. She pulls out a few dollars and holds out her hand.

"Go and buy something to eat," she says. Sam has just managed to stuff everything into his backpack and he slings it over his shoulder, making his way hesitantly over to his desk.

"It's okay, Miss Dill," he insists. "I just forgot my lunch today. I'll have something when I get home."

She doesn't look like she believes him. His shoes are too small for his feet and he wears the same jeans every day, even though the hole in the right knee keeps stretching wider and wider. She leans over the desk and grabs his hand gently, pushing the money into his hand and pressing his fingers tight around it.

"You can make it up to me next week by helping me organize the returned books," she promises. The money feels a little lighter in his hand when he knows he can earn it. She smiles and waves him off, turning back to whatever she'd been doing.

Sam stuffs all three dollars into his pocket and leaves. The corridors are empty and Sam is thankful. Still, he keeps an eye out as he makes his way to the cafeteria. God. The freaking cafeteria. Hopefully, by now most of the kids will have gone outside and he has a better chance of avoiding the assholes from his class.

Sometimes, Sam likes to imagine taking them on a hunt. He'd bet Johnny Layton would piss himself at the sight of a Wendigo. And honestly, Sam wouldn't want the Wendigo to miss out on dinner. Those are fantasies he keeps to himself while he lies in bed and dreads the morning.

Assholes.

He stops short when he notices a few kids from Dean's class. They don't look particularly friendly and they're laughing about… something. Sam ducks behind a row of lockers and listens. Someone definitely said Winchester. And they don't seem exactly pleased at the mention of the name.

Sam doesn't know any of these clowns and there's no doubt in his mind that they're talking about Dean. Dean, who Sam can just about see through the cafeteria doors, sitting with a couple of friends and the girl he's been making out with in the cleaner's closet for the past month.

The group of guys walk into the cafeteria and shut the double doors behind them.

This can't be good.

* * *

It takes Sam way too long to find the vents. Obviously, the doors are locked from the inside. Almost immediately there had been yelling, and a lot of cursing that sounded a lot like Dean. Sam has no clue what kind of mess Dean is in, but there's no way he's leaving his brother alone to deal with it.

He'd run back to the library and told Miss Dill there was trouble in the cafeteria and the doors were locked. Not long after that, the janitor and the principle had turned up. The principle made some lame threats through the closed cafeteria doors. The janitor rolled his eyes and swung his sledge hammer, looking way too eager to knock the doors down.

Of course, Sam had been told to go outside and stay out of the way. And of course, Sam did no such thing.

The kitchen is empty; the lunch staff are already gone. He leaves his backpack on one of the counters. The shutters are down and Sam can hear more clearly.

"Fuck you, Winchester." Sam doesn't recognize that voice.

"Fuck _you_ , Donnie. Seriously, get a life." That's Dean. "She doesn't want to be with you. Move on!"

"Please, Don. This is ridiculous!" A girl's voice. There's a loud _smack_ and a yelp.

"Don't touch her!" Dean. Then Sam hears grunting, a struggle. Sam hurries, finding a vent low down to the ground near shelves stacked with tins. He uses his pen knife to unscrew the grate from the wall. It looks like a tight squeeze, and it's pretty dark at the turn. It's a lucky thing Sam's so tiny. Maybe once he saves Dean, Dean will stop calling him a shrimp.

Sam holds the pen knife between his teeth and crawls inside. The metal under his hands is seriously dusty and he has to hold back from coughing, worried someone might hear and too busy trying not to drop the knife.

By some goddamn miracle, the grate on the other end is loose. Probably some asshole students broke the screws at some point. At a crapfest school like this one, it's not surprising. Sam just has to wiggle the remaining screw off as quietly as he can, which is hard when the metal is so rusty. The grate squeaks and Sam freezes, glancing up into the room.

No one has seen him, but it's only then that he notices one of the kids has a freaking gun.

Dean is standing, arms out, in front of the girl and some other people. Some of them are crying, the girl has a hand clasped over her bruising cheek.

"Come on, Donnie, man," Dean says slowly, hands up. "You don't want to hurt anyone. I know you don't. This is a mistake. Just put the gun down and we can talk about it."

The kid opposite, Donnie, raises the gun higher. The long barrel is pointed right at Dean's chest. Sam can feel his heart beating like crazy in his chest, his hands are slicked with sweat and he can feel his grip on the grate slipping.

He barely manages to lower it to the floor of the cafeteria without a sound. He keeps his eyes on Donnie and his gang the whole time.

"You don't know anything about me," Donnie spits, pushing the gun forward until it bumps Dean's chest. The girl behind whimpers and clasps her other hand over her mouth.

One of Donnie's friends steps forward. "I think that's enough, man," he says. "We should just go, okay?"

Donnie doesn't lower the weapon, he steps back until everyone is in front of him and the barrel of his gun. He's facing back to Sam, about a foot away. Sam glances to the side where a few tables are stacked. He slides slowly out of the vent and onto his hands and knees, crawling as silently as he can over to them.

He crouches down behind the stack, trying to steady his breath. Dean looks at him then, the colour completely draining from his face. His eyes widen, jaw clenched. He quickly looks back to Donnie.

"Don. You're in charge here. We all know that," Dean says. He's stepping slowly around, turning Donnie away from Sam's direction. He halts when Donnie focuses the gun on him and Sam hears the familiar _chuckchuck_ of the barrel being loaded.

Any sensible thought is gone. Sam isn't even thinking at this point. All he knows is _Dean'sgoingtobeshotohgod_ and suddenly Sam's up on his feet, running straight for Donnie. Dean's moving too, lunging for Sam. And it's all so fast that Sam can barely see a thing, everything is blurred and he doesn't know who goes in which direction.

Then he hears the gun go off.

A girl screams, there are scattered gasps and cries.

"Oh God oh God oh God." That's Donnie. Sam panics, looks around for Dean and finds him right there in front of him, hands held out and hovering over Sam like he's suddenly frozen. Sam's looking Dean over but he can't find any blood. Then he notices Donnie's panicked face as he drops the gun, hands shaking.

"I didn't know it was loaded," he's saying. "I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know. I swear. I just wanted to scare you, I didn't – "

He cuts off and drops to his knees.

"Sam," Dean says, hoarse and breathless. His hands find him, one on his right shoulder, the other brushing back his hair. "You're gonna be okay, alright? We'll fix you up in no time."

Sam feels Dean's hands tremble against his skin. He processes the words and frowns. "What are you talking about?" he asks. Dean just keeps stroking his hair, trying to push Sam to sit down.

The girl appears, cheek red and wet with tears. She holds out some paper towels and Dean takes them, bundling a few up. Sam's about to ask what's wrong, who's hurt, then Dean presses the towels to Sam's left shoulder and he feels something agonizing like a slice through his skin, and he cries out. His vision greys for a second and once it clears he's sitting down on the floor.

He looks down to his shoulder. There's blood everywhere.

"Shit!" Dean hisses. His hands are soaked red now and he looks one breath away from tears. "It's bleeding too much!"

The girl's there again and she sits behind Sam, taking his uninjured shoulder gently and easing him back. "Just rest on me, okay?" she says. Sam lies back, his head against her chest. He looks up and she smiles at him. "You're one brave kid, huh?"

"Dumb kid," Dean corrects thickly.

Even now, Sam's finding it hard to connect the dots. He's hurt, the gun had gone off…

Donnie's panicked ramblings are like a soft backing track to lull Sam further into the girl's arms.

"Hey," she snaps, patting his cheek. "You're not checking out on me, are you?"

"No?" Sam replies, but it's only a guess. He's not really sure what exactly she meant.

"He's cold," Dean says, voice shaking.

"Call 911 immediately." Weird. That sounded like the principle.

"He's going into shock!"

"He's losing a lot of blood."

"I swear I didn't mean it… I didn't know it was loaded…"

"Sammy? Sam! Look at me."

"Hey, kid. Sam. Don't check out on us just yet, okay? We're just getting acquainted."

"Sam!"

* * *

"Male. Aged twelve years old. Gunshot wound to the left shoulder. Patient is unconscious and still bleeding."

Sam peels his eyes open. The jostling is making him feel sick and he wants to say as much but he can't open his mouth. A man dressed in blue is sitting next to him and catches his eye.

"Sam," he says. "Can you hear me?"

Sam frowns, gaze drifting. He snaps it back and tries to focus on the man.

"Sam, we're taking you to hospital. Your brother's here, do you see?"

Sam glances away. His eyes slide right over Dean, then back.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean breathes, trying to get closer. "Don't go off again, alright? You can sleep later, you lazy ass."

Sam's mouth twitches into a small smile.

"I don't know what the hell you thought you were doing," Dean says. He pauses and shakes his head. "We'll talk about it once they fill you back up again, alright? You're like a leaking faucet, dude."

It sounds like a joke but no one is laughing. Sam blinks up at him, not really understanding what he's done wrong. He decides he'll figure it out later. Right now, he's too tired.

"Sammy, hey!"

* * *

He can't feel anything. And honestly, it's awesome. It's like sleeping on a cloud. He could stay like this forever, just wrapped up in soft… huh. That's weird. He can't feel anything. It's awesome. Like living in cotton candy. Only less sticky.

Where is he? He feels numb. It's good.

Huh… he can't see anything. He can hear… he's not sure what he hears. The noise is all goopy and dripping from his ears like melted marshmallow.

He can't feel anything…

* * *

" – just came outta nowhere. I had no idea. I knew the kid was mad but I never thought he'd do what he did."

Sam feels like he's weightless, drifting up and up with no intention of stopping. Then suddenly, he's weighing down, down, down. And… wait. Is that Dean?

"The kid's a psycho, clearly."

What's Sam done this time? He doesn't remember doing anything wrong, certainly nothing to label him a _psycho_.

"And what the hell was Sam doing?"

"I don't know, Dad. I swear. He just popped out of nowhere. The janitor said he must have crawled through the vent."

Someone huffs a short laugh. "Why am I not that surprised?"

It takes a moment for Sam to realize that someone is his dad. When did dad get back?

His body feels weird. Heavy and light at the same time. He feels like he's slipped out of his skin and it's not such a nice feeling anymore. He feels his head fall to the side, heavy and loose on his neck.

"Sam?"

Sam opens his mouth and that's about all he can manage for now.

"Sam? Are you awake?"

He manages to figure out where his eyes are supposed to be and puts some effort into opening them. It takes a few seconds, and by the time he's done he can barely see a thing it's so blurry.

"There you are, you dumbass," Dean says. He's smiling, now that Sam can see a little better, but he doesn't look that happy. Just tired.

"Hey," Sam says. Or at least, he meant to say it. What comes out of his mouth is this sort of pathetic whimper like a kicked puppy. And it's only then that he realizes his shoulder _hurts_ … oh. The cafeteria. Right.

"Are you in pain?" Dean asks worriedly, leaning forward but holding himself back a little.

Sam runs a dry tongue over his lips and swallows. "Sorry," he says. It seems like the best thing to say right now because he knows he's pretty much neglected everything Dean and Dad ever taught him. Running like that at a man with a loaded gun is the dumbest thing anyone can do and Sam's sure he'll never live it down.

"Damn right," Dean says but he's cut off when their dad clears his throat.

"Not now, Dean," John says. He turns to Sam. "We're going to have a serious talk. But right now, you're going to rest up and get better, okay?"

"Yes, sir," Sam says. He's already feeling tired again, eyelids drooping. He blinks and forces them open.

"Go back to sleep," dad says. "We'll be here when you wake up."

* * *

Three weeks later, Sam is standing at the front of a new class at a new school. Some of the kids stare at him, the rest aren't paying attention. Sam wishes he could just take his seat and skip past the introductions.

"Does anyone have any questions they'd like to ask Sam?" the teacher asks. Sam drops his head forward, hoping maybe his hair will camouflage him and everyone will forget that he's standing there. Surprisingly, quite a few hands go up.

"Yes, Harry," Miss Arlo beams. She's a young teacher dressed all in pastels. Her windowsill is completely covered in plant pots and any spare inch of the walls are pinned over with motivational quotes on bright paper. She's one of those 24/7 cheery types.

Sam kinda misses Miss Dill the librarian and her stern looks and warm smiles that somehow occurred at the same time.

"What happened to your arm?" the boy, Harry, asks. Once he's said it, most of the hands go down.

Miss Arlo sighs a little. "Harry, maybe that's not something – "

"I got shot," Sam answers, cutting over her. Every head in the class turns up and stares at him.

"Liar," someone accuses.

Sam shrugs his good shoulder. "Whatever. But it's true."

With that, he takes his seat. He stares at the board and ignores the whispers around him. For the entire two months he spends at that school, no one defaces his locker, no one tries to trip him up in the hall, and no one threatens to knock his teeth out for being within seven feet of them.

And Sam certainly doesn't sit alone at lunch. For whatever reason, getting shot in the dumbest way possible makes you the coolest kid in school.

* * *

Thank you all so much for your patience with me. And thanks so much to all the prompters for their wonderful ideas! Reviews are love!


	14. The Cold

This prompt comes from anon reviewer HYB108:

 _Pre-series, with all three of our favorite Winchesters;  
Sam is ignored/neglected, not purposely, and ends up in the hospital, (you can pick the reason). Dean and John, now have the task of taking care and making it up to him. If you would like to include some of the other characters, that would be fine too, and if he ends up in the hospital because he was protecting the other two, then that's okay too.  
Thank you!_

Note: This is the last prompt I have. I'm asking for one final prompt so I can round this up to fifteen chapters (it will really bother me to leave it at 14), so send me a message if you have a prompt. If I get more than one prompt, I'll pick whoever asked first and I'll save the others to fill one day in the future.

Also, thanks to winchesterpooja (Chronic Potterphile) for helping with the medical facts.

I hope you enjoy the chapter!

* * *

 _Now_

Sam feels heavy. Heavy in his bones, in his head, in his heart. He can feel how frail he is. He can see it in the way Dean handles him, the way his dad looks at him.

He's lucky there's anything left of him.

Dean is sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, mixing a bowl of porridge with sugar. Sam stares at it. It's sticky, sickly, congealing, sopping wet. Bloody.

Dean holds out the spoon to Sam's mouth, but Sam clamps his lips together and turns his head to the side.

"You need to eat," Dean says.

"Not hungry," Sam rasps. And it's true. His stomach may feel like it's trying to consume itself, but he never feels like eating ever again. The nasal cannula is awkward in his nostrils and he tries to breath its cool air steadily. He can't help but shiver, from the cold and the pain. Everything is a dull, throbbing ache.

"Please, Sam."

Sam shakes his head.

He was half wasted away once they found him. He's half a person now.

"Sam," that's his dad. A warning tone. "Sam, Dean's right. We're worried about you."

Sam glares at John. He thinks, _you should have gotten there sooner. You should have found me earlier. You did this._

As if hearing his thoughts, John says, "I'm sorry, Sam."

* * *

 _Then_

Dad said to stay where he can see him, but Sam can't concentrate in the bar. It's a constant hum of chatter, there's a lot of yelling, too, and more than once Sam has been nudged by rowdy truckers getting into fights. He can see dad and Dean over at the pool tables, hustling some rat-faced dude and his beefed-up friends. Rat-face, who seems to be in charge of the little group, reminds Sam a little of the Joker from the Batman comics, and he keeps sneering angrily at John with his yellow teeth.

Dean doesn't seem fazed by the leering of the other two. He's been looking up now and then, subtle enough that no one would notice but Sam. He's probably just checking Sam is where he left him, but Dean hasn't really glanced over in the past hour so Sam figures it's safe to sneak back to the car to finish his essay. He'll be back before they notice he was gone.

Sam downs the rest of his soda and scrapes up his textbooks and papers. He's pretty much invisible in this bar. He's not short anymore, in fact, he's almost as tall as Dean. But Sam is also skinny as a rake and he slips easily past each body in the place. More often than not, he gets an elbow in his side and no apology to follow. No one bothers to pay attention to the only underaged person there.

He manages to slink through the crowd and out the door.

The sounds of the bar quieten once the door falls shut behind him and he finally feels like he can breathe once he's outside. Sam pulls the cool, fresh air into his lungs and sighs. They're in the middle of God-knows-where, on their way to Michigan for the next job. Sam is just trying to catch up before he gets to his next school, hence the six essays he's done over the weekend.

It's a school night and he's hoping he can make it to classes in the morning. If his brother and dad would just hurry up, they could leave.

Sam fiddles for his key in his pocket and opens the passenger side door. He hops in and turns on the heater, settling his work on the dashboard. He holds his keychain flashlight between his teeth so he can see what he's writing in the dark.

He'd been sitting in the bar for three hours and he only got four paragraphs done. In the quiet of the car, he finishes it in half an hour. He skims it once and then decides to proofread it until he's satisfied. The tiny flashlight is running out of battery and it eventually flickers off halfway through the second re-read. He groans, tapping it against his palm, clicking the switch, hoping it'll turn back on. Nothing.

It's really dark out, now. And they aren't close enough to the highway that he might be able to get a little light from traffic. He looks back towards the bar where everything is pitch black except for the lights coming from the windows. He should probably head back inside before Dean and dad throw a fit, but the walk back is going to be a stumble in the dark.

He yawns and almost blindly collects his school work together. He leaves it in a pile on the back seat and prepares to walk back to the bar.

 _Tap tap tap_

There's someone outside, leaning down to peer at him through the window. It's dark and Sam squints to figure out who it is. It's not dad or Dean, that's for sure.

"Hey, kid," the person says. Sam's eyes adjust a bit and he can just about recognize who it is. He quickly pushes down the lock and feels for the pocket knife he left on the seat beside him.

"Kid, I was just checking if you're alright out here on your own," Rat-face says. "I saw you out here on your own. You're a little young to be hanging out in a place like this."

Sam keeps fumbling, then his hand hits something and he hears it _thunk_ to the car floor.

"My dad's gonna be back any second," Sam says.

The man grins and something awful tingles Sam's spine.

"Oh, I don't think he will be," the man says. "He's quite busy with a friend of mine in there. He won't be out until I decide he can come out."

Sam backs away towards the other door, hand reaching down for the knife. Then, he realises. He didn't lock the other door. It's yanked open behind him and someone grabs him roughly by the shoulders, pulling him out onto the gravel. All while Rat-face watches through the passenger window.

Sam squirms and kicks and grabs at anything he can. He can hear himself yelling, crying like a little kid, but he doesn't care. His heart is beating so fast it could burst right out of his chest. Where is his dad? Where's Dean?

Gravel crunches under boots and Rat-face is there. Whoever pulled him out of the car is holding him down flat on the ground, pushing him hard enough that he hurts all over. Sam thinks of Giles Corey in _The Crucible_.

 _More weight._

"Your dad tried to cheat me," Rat-face says. "He cheated and now he owes me something. And, you see, I don't think your daddy has any money. All he's got is this rusty old car… and you."

"Please," Sam manages to say, his voice is heavy and breathless. "He'll get your money. I swear. I can make sure of it. Just let me go. Please."

Rat-face pauses, eyes shining in the dark as he considers Sam. "I don't think I want his money. You, however, will come in handy for a while."

 _A while_.

What does that mean? His heart becomes more frantic. Oh God. They're going to kill him. He's going to die.

"Let's get him in the van," Rat-face says, but he's talking to the heavy weight on top of Sam. "I'll give Vic the signal and we'll head back home."

Sam is being pulled upright.

"Please. Please, don't," he begs. His feet are digging into the ground, looking for some purchase, anything to keeping him from going where they're taking him. Then, he manages to find his voice and lets a long scream rip from his throat.

"HELP ME! SOMEONE PL – "

A large, meaty hand smacks over his mouth, cutting him off. Rat-face undoes his belt and Sam squirms harder, breaths huffing desperately.

"Jesus. Relax, kid. I'm not a pervert," says Rat-face. The hand is removed from Sam's mouth and quickly the belt is shoved between his teeth and knotted at the back of his head, tight enough that the leather digs into the corners of his mouth.

There's a van and the back doors are open. Someone ties Sam's hands behind his back and shoves roughly him inside. The doors are slammed shut and it's suddenly so dark. Sam can't see a thing.

He's not sure how long they drive for. He's too busy crying. Inside, he's thinking of how weird it is that he's been _kidnapped_. And the more he thinks about his current predicament, the more he cries. Someone tells him to shut up a few times but Sam doesn't think he could even if he wanted to.

He thinks of his pocket knife lying on the car floor. He thinks of how much he wishes he could have grabbed it. He wouldn't be here if he had.

Then, he thinks of his dad and brother. He wonders if they're hurt. If they're alive. If they know he's missing. If they're looking for him.

He tries to calm his breathing but he's jostled with the van and it only seems to get worse.

 _Calm down._

He can't.

 _If you don't get yourself together, you won't have a chance at getting out of this._

The voice in his head sounds an awful lot like his father.

Sam takes a deep breath.

The van comes to a sudden stop and Sam goes to the floor with a painful thud. He wriggles, tries to get back upright, but the doors open and there are three figures there. The shortest one is Rat-face, and he leans in and grabs Sam by the collar, pulling him out. Sam stumbles, almost loses his balance and goes down in a heap, but he's held tightly. Rat-face is a lot stronger than Sam would have guessed.

He's mostly dragged towards what looks like an abandoned barn.

"Come on, kid," Rat-face snaps. "Work with me here, would you?"

Sam growls at him through the belt between his teeth.

The three of them laugh.

"Got a little monster here," one of the says. "Not a full moon, is it?"

Rat-face leans in close and sniffs Sam's hair. "He's human, that's for sure," he says.

Sam freezes and almost goes tumbling to the ground. They aren't human, he realizes. They aren't –

"What you got, Joe?" there's a girl standing in the barn's doorway, rubbing her eyes sleepily. She glances at Sam for a little while, watching him all the way inside. She's a lot younger than the others, only a teenager. "He's only a small one, ain't he?" she says. "Not much juice in that."

"Hunter's kid," Rat-face, Joe, tells her. And Sam stops breathing for a moment.

What are they? How did his dad not know?

He's going to die.

"Oh," the girl says. She bursts into a grin. "He'll be sweet, huh? Do I get first taste?"

Ghouls? Sam thinks.

Oh, God. They're going to eat him alive.

* * *

 _Now_

"You're still very weak," the doctor is saying. Sam doesn't pay her much attention. He glances out the window. It's a sunny day. He can see people wandering around the hospital grounds below.

"The blood loss was severe," she goes on. "And you were extremely malnourished and dehydrated. It will take a while to get back on your feet… Sam?"

Sam rolls his head on his pillow and glances at her. "Huh?"

"Did you hear what I said?" she asks gently.

Sam shakes his head.

"Sam, if you need to talk to someone, someone professional, about what happened," she offers, "I can get someone for you. Talking to a therapist can really help."

"No thanks," Sam says. He glances down at his arms, every inch of them is bandaged. He can feel the bandages wrapped tight around his neck, his thighs.

"Think about it?" the doctor suggests.

Sam shrugs. "I got abducted by some psycho cannibals. Not much more to think about."

* * *

 _Then_

The girl's name is Tiff, short for Tiffany, and she hasn't left Sam alone since he arrived. He's tied to a wooden post, his wrists and arms ache from being held in one place for so long. Tiff strokes his hair.

"He's the same age I was," she says, to no one in particular. "I probably woulda had a crush on him. He's cute, don't you think?"

"Not my type," says Joe.

It's freezing in the barn and Sam can't stop shivering. The rest of them, the people who took him, don't seem to feel the cold.

"Are you ghouls?" Sam stutters, breath catching the air, asking what's been on his mind for almost two days.

Tiff's eyes widen. "Ew! No!" She starts to stroke his hair and smiles. She turns to Joe and says, "I like him, he's cute. Can we keep him?"

"No. We don't need another mouth to feed," Joe says. He's fiddling with a beer bottle label, lounging on a ratty old couch, watching Tiff and Sam.

Tiff pouts and looks Sam in the eyes. "Sorry. I thought maybe he'd let you stay with us. I'd would'a shown you the ropes and everything. But what the boss says goes," she says, pouting.

"He's not doing any good there hanging like a goddamn decoration for this fugly place," Vic, one of the bigger guys, says. "I'm starving."

Sam gulps. His mouth is dry. He hasn't eaten or had anything to drink in two days. He's been watching the sun rise and fall through the slats in the barn walls. Everyone sleeps when the sun is out, Sam tries to keep his eyes open at all times. He hasn't slept yet, but fatigue is creeping up on him.

"Not you, Vic," Joe says. "The kid will be dead in a minute if I let you at him."

"The fuck?" Vic exclaims.

Joe shrugs. "Tiff can have him. She knows how to make her food last."

Tiff beams.

"Go ahead, sweetheart," Joe tells her.

She turns back to Sam and pecks his cheek. "It won't be so bad with me," she whispers in his ear. She lingers close to him and he can feel her breath near his neck, it's cold.

Then, there's pain. His neck is aflame, he's sure. He can't move, it hurts so much. But he manages to scream, gutted and rasping. She's latched onto him like a leach and he can feel her _sucking_. Blood drips down his neck, soaks the collar of his shirt. It's the only warm thing there is, his blood coating his side.

He's not sure how long it goes on for but his energy is seeping. Everything is tilting around him and when Tiff sits back she's split into two. Her mouth is bloody red and she's smiling around a full set of razer teeth, shark-like.

She leans forward again and laps at his neck.

Sam drifts away.

* * *

 _Now_

Sam isn't sure when exactly he woke up, but he lies there for a long time with his eyes closed. He's cold, despite the three hospital blankets he's wrapped in.

"We can't leave. Not yet," that's Dean's voice, low and hissing.

"We don't have a choice," John whispers.

Sam hears Dean's frustrated silence.

"Sam's too sick," Dean says after a moment, hushed. "He can barely sit up by himself."

"The police are already involved, Dean," John replies. "Things are getting out of hand. How long do you think it will be before CPS turns up?"

"That won't happen," Dean denies. "We told them the truth. Or a version of it. Cannibal kidnappers isn't much different from vampires. Vampires… I still can't believe it. You said there was no such thing."

"I thought they were extinct."

"Well, dad, you were wrong."

Sam peels an eye open. Lying on his side, he can see nothing but the wall by his bed and the strip of light seeping in from the hallway.

"We need to go, Dean," John says again.

Dean sighs, defeated. It was only a matter of time. Dean can't refuse Dad.

"Okay. Fine. But we wait a little while. A day."

"Dean – "

"Give him one day."

"Alright. Just one day."

Sam doesn't sleep again that night.

* * *

 _Then_

"I'm gonna miss you when you're gone," Tiff says.

Sam can't say the same. Even so, his neck is so torn up he's afraid to speak in case the bleeding starts again. She seemed to notice, too, so she's started feeding from his wrists and arms. Even worse, sometimes she bites the insides of his thighs. He's in nothing but his boxers. At least they gave him that dignity.

He's so cold.

So tired.

Tiff begins to braid a section of his hair.

"You know, it gets kinda lonely hanging out with these old dues all the time," she confides. "It's nice to have someone my age here. Well… not quite my age, but you get the picture."

Sam looks at her, heavy lidded. He would cry but he doesn't think he has enough water left in his body to do it. He's just a lump of meat, salty and dead. He stinks, too. There's piss staining his boxers and legs, and, God, it had stung like hell when the urine touched the open wounds on his thighs.

Tiff doesn't seem to mind the smell, or the fact that Sam is rotting away right in front of her.

She pauses her braiding and glances around. Joe, Vic and the other guy are playing cards on the other side of the barn.

"I can fix you," she whispers to Sam, "if you want. You can be like me and we'll live forever. Together."

She drags a nail across her palm and draws blood. She holds it close to Sam's mouth. He turns away.

"You need to drink it, it'll make you better," she says slowly, like he doesn't understand, but Sam has a pretty good guess of what drinking her blood will do to him.

He clamps his teeth together, turns his neck far enough for it to hurt.

"Come on, please," Tiff begs.

"Tiff! What the fuck are you doing?" Joe's voice barks across the barn. "I said he's a blood bag, nothing else. If you turn him, _you_ have to kill him, and that'll just be a waste of food."

Tiff drops her hands to her sides, face falling sadly. "But I like him," she says, looking on the verge of tears.

Joe is striding over to them and he grabs Tiff's shoulder and shoves her back.

"You don't get to touch him anymore, girl," he snaps. "He's mine now, got it? I even see you look at him, I'll tie you up outside during the day."

Tiff trembles a little, head dropping. She nods and quickly gathers herself, hurrying across the barn to the others.

Joe sighs and grabs Sam by his hair, tilts his head from side to side. "She's made a real mess of you," he remarks, "but I'm surprised you're still living. Most folk give up and drop dead by now. You're one stubborn little kid."

He leans in close to the less damaged side of Sam's neck and Sam knows he won't survive it. This is it. Joe will feed from him and Sam will die. There's nothing left in him to keep going.

Sam closes his eyes. He's too tired.

Gunshots ring out through the barn and Joe let's go of him as Tiff shrieks. Sam tries to open his eyes to see, but he can't. He can't even stay awake anymore.

* * *

 _Now_

Sam is limp and heavy as Dean lifts him from the hospital bed to the wheelchair. He can barely keep his head up straight. He lets it fall back into Dean's arms.

"We'll get you settled in at a motel, okay?" Dean is saying. "Get you all tucked in and drugged up. I'll rent some movies and we can watch them together. What do you say?"

Sam shrugs. Dean sits him down in the wheelchair, bends down to place Sam's dragging feet onto the stirrups. He leaves the line in Sam's arm, hangs the IV bags on the pole on the back of the chair, then he places two blankets over Sam's lap. He kneels in front of him and brushes a hand through Sam's hair.

"You good?"

"I'm fine," Sam says. His voice is cracked and barely above a whisper. His throat has been sore since he woke up in the hospital, long before that even. He thinks maybe he screamed his voice out of use.

Dean smiles a false smile and stands up to take the wheelchair handles.

Sam barely remembers the escape, nor the five hour drive out of state. He does remember retching all over dad's shoes on the side of the road and how the strain in his neck made a stitch almost split. He remembers crying from the pain.

He doesn't remember much after that until he wakes up again, tucked under both blankets from the beds in their motel room. Dean is beside him, stroking his hair, mouthing the lines along to some black-and-white western film on TV. And Dad is sitting beside him, writing something in his journal.

John looks up and sees that Sam is awake. He smiles, and Sam smiles right back.

He feels almost safe.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading! Take a moment to review if you can.

One last chapter to go :)


	15. Void

Thanks so much to everyone who submitted a prompt, read/favourited/followed and reviewed. I had a lot of fun writing these and I would love to open up prompts again in the future, maybe next time with a theme of some kind.

This final prompt comes from catmoviegrin: _Sam is slowly wasting away, and at first they don't even notice, but once they do they can't figure out why (at least for a long time), and things eventually get dire? Meanwhile they're both trying their best to take care of each other. Ending and setting completely up to you._

I warn you that there are some rather disgusting things happening in this one, so if you're particularly squeamish, I suggest you give this one a miss. I definitely got carried away with the monster. Also, while this is chock-full of Sam pain, there's also a healthy dose of Dean.

This one is set during season 10, post Paper Moon.

* * *

Moments like these are rare. The air is sticky and thick. The sun is bright and insistent, glinting off the hood of the Impala, wrapping the metal in enough heat to cook an egg. Of course, with hundreds of miles between nowhere and anywhere, the car decides to give up.

The beers in the back seat are, miraculously, still chilled, and Dean pops a cap and takes a swig before fishing the tools out of the trunk. Sam doesn't get out of the car, despite it being a few degrees hotter in there than it is outside, and declines when Dean offers him a beer.

Things are still strange between them both, almost as stifling as the summer heat. Dean wishes he could say something, but what do you say after you tried to bash your little brother's head in with a hammer?

Sam doesn't want to talk either.

It's not just the silence. It's everything else. The two of them used to mesh together like cogs in a well-oiled machine, now there are few glances between them, and even fewer words. Cas hasn't been shy about bringing up the obvious void between them both, but each time he tries Sam is the first to shut it down.

"There's nothing to discuss," Sam always says. "There are bigger things to worry about."

Dean finds his index finger scratching at the flesh of his right arm. The Mark – scar, brand, curse, whatever you want to call it – never seems to stop burning. It doesn't hurt, not really. It's more like an itch that needs relieving. He wipes the back of his hand across his brow and shrugs out of his flannel. Sweat has already soaked through to his t-shirt.

He looks up from where he's crouched and sifting through the toolbox to find Sam watching him through the windscreen. Or, rather, watching the Mark.

"You sure you don't want a beer?" Dean asks, so that Sam's eyes will move up to his face instead. "They're still cold."

Sam shakes his head, but to Dean's relief he gets out of the car.

"You, uh, need a hand?" he asks, gesturing to the tool box.

Dean leans over and pops the lids off the engine. "Let's see what the problem is first," he says. He leans forward and looks around. "What's wrong, huh, baby?"

He catches Sam smiling out of the corner of his eye. It may be the first time he's seen a real smile from him in a long time. Dean wonders, when was the last time Sam seemed happy? When was the last time either of us were happy?

Moments like these are rare; moments where it's just the two of them, a few beers, and nothing around for miles. Just the soft rustle of the breeze dancing through fields, the tinker of the Impala's engine. Normally, they'd talk, or not, but the silence wouldn't be strained like it is now.

By the time he looks up, Sam is staring out over the endless stretches of fields all around, his face is focused, mouth turned down slightly and pinched. Not long after that, after the silence between them has settled back into place, Dean has perked up his baby and they're hurtling across country again.

And not long after that, Sam is devouring his second helping of hash browns and bacon in a grubby little diner just off the interstate. He isn't wearing his sling, it sits abandoned in the backseat of the Impala, but he holds his arm delicately enough that Dean can tell it still hurts. Sam lost a lot of bulk while Dean was gone. Hollow cheeks and sloping shoulders on such a towering man give the impression of a bare tree enduring a harsh winter.

* * *

Their feet have been firmly planted in the bunker for two weeks, no signs of anything resembling a hunt in the papers. No inkling of a possible cure for Dean, not that Sam is deterred.

Cas always seems to flutter back in their direction and he's been hanging around the bunker for just under a week, hovering and silent and creepy like he usually is. He stares at Dean almost as much as Sam does, but that isn't really anything new. What is new is the way he's furrowing his brow at Sam with the same concern he's been holding for Dean since the Mark was seared into his arm.

They're eating breakfast – well, Sam and Dean are – and Cas has been staring at Sam since he entered the room. Sam is shovelling down a plate-full of eggs, he'd emptied the entire carton of twelve into the pan and whisked, pouring them onto his plate while they were still runny. When he's done with those, he eats four slices of toast and downs two cups of coffee, all in record time.

Dean finally understands what Cas is staring at. Sam is eating like a maniac. The kid never ate this much even when he shot up two feet over the summer when he was sixteen and his stomach capacity seemed to grow three sizes. The thing about Sam is that, despite being such a behemoth of a man, he's never been a fan of food. Salads? Sure. Smoothie cleanses? Why the heck not. Real food that actually tastes of something? 'No thanks, man, I'm not hungry.'

"Might want to slow down there, buddy," Dean says. Sam pauses mid-chew, already halfway out of his seat and heading back towards the fridge.

He swallows what's in his mouth and says, "huh?"

"I only just bought groceries yesterday, Sam," Dean points out. "You don't need to eat them all within a day."

Sam frowns like he has no idea what Dean is talking about. He says as much.

Cas, meanwhile, is still staring at Sam, eyes narrowed. Dean ignores him and turns back to Sam.

"Just slow down there, Shaggy, okay?"

Sam's brow furrows even further. "Um… okay?" he says, like _Dean_ is the insane one. "I'm going out."

He slips out of the kitchen and Dean listens to his footsteps echoing down the halls before turning to Cas.

"You noticed that, even before I did," he says. "What is this, stress eating?"

Cas turns his squinty eyes onto Dean. "You didn't notice?"

"The eating? Yeah, now I do."

"And how long has he been eating like this?"

Dean thinks back to the diner off the interstate a couple of weeks ago. He thinks back further to almost a month ago when Sam polished three plates of plain pasta off in the middle of the night. Sam's been underweight for a while now, probably since Dean came back with black eyes and skipped off into the sunset with Crowley. Up until now, he'd thought that maybe Sam was just making up for lost pounds.

But Sam doesn't look any bigger. In fact, he looks skinnier.

"He's losing weight," Dean says. Cas nods.

* * *

"This is dumb," Sam huffs.

"No, it's not," Dean counters. They've been parked outside the clinic for fifteen minutes and Sam is showing no signs of budging.

"I'm fine, Dean. Coming here is just a waste of time."

"It's really not. Sam, have you looked in the mirror lately?"

"Not really…"

"Well, you're beginning to look like Death, and I mean the horseman. You know, the skinny guy?"

"Yeah. I know him."

"Well, that's how you look."

"Do not."

Dean sighs deeply. "Would you just go in there? Please?"

After a moment, Sam relents, the creaking doors of the Impala groaning shut behind him. In the clinic, the nurse behind the desk stares at Sam for a moment before she can collect herself. Even now, Sam doesn't seem to notice.

"Um, if you could just fill these out and wait over there," she says, sliding a pen and stapled-together papers across the desk. Dean takes them and ushers Sam into a chair. He fills out the form as easily as he would his own, knowing Sam like the back of his hand.

 _Do you suffer from any allergies? No._

 _Do you drink? On occasion._

 _Do you smoke? No._

 _Is there any history of serious illness in the family? Unless they mean chronic self-sacrificing…_

 _Do you have a history with mental illness?_

Dean pauses, then finally ticks _yes._

They aren't unused to waiting hours on end in hard plastic chairs, but it's a surprise when they get called through to see a doctor after only two hours. Their doctor looks fresh out of college, she's small and mousey and looks way out of her depth when she glances up to see two giants of men walking into her office.

She glances down at the computer, then back up to them both. "Sam Winston?"

Sam sits down opposite her. "That's me," he says. He sticks his thumb at Dean. "That's my brother Dean. He can wait outside."

"Nope, I'm good," says Dean, taking the seat beside him. The glare he receives is a lot like the sort of look their dad used to get when Sam was a teenager.

The doctor, doctor Lance reads her name tag, smiles at them both. "What can I do for you?"

Dean cuts in before Sam can. "Sammy's been eating a lot lately," he explains, "and I mean _a lot_. Like, entire cartons of eggs for breakfast."

"Right…" Doctor Lance nods along although it's clear she's a little lost.

"Well, Sam's been eating like this for at least a month and he isn't gaining any weight. He's losing it."

"Oh," Lance says. "Well, that is a little strange." She turns to Sam. "Have you been experiencing any vomiting or diarrhoea?"

Sam visible flushes. "No. No, nothing like that. I feel fine, honestly."

She studies him under her gaze for a moment. "I'd like to weigh and measure you, if that's okay?"

Dean notices that almost everything she says ends like a question, even when it's not. Sam glares at Dean and gets to his feet, following Dr Lance to the corner of the room where there's a set of scales. She measures Sam at a little over six feet and four inches, when he gets on the scales her mouth pinches at the corners.

She and Sam retake their seats.

"Okay. So, you're weighing in at 135.5 pounds, which is underweight for someone of your height. When did the weight loss start?"

"He wasn't this skinny a few months ago. He must have been at least fifty pounds heavier. I don't know why he's losing weight."

"Because I had arm surgery," Sam cut in.

Dean blinks. "You had surgery?"

Sam sighs and looks anywhere but in Dean's direction. "It's not a big deal. It was just a minor surgery."

"Um. Okay," Lance says. "Well, you do have a low BMI. I would normally suggest gaining a little weight, but if you're correct that you're losing weight despite eating a large amount, I suspect something more is at play than just a little weight loss. Sam, would you mind if I take a look at you?"

"Take a look at me?"

"Just a little check-up. I'll check your breathing and your blood pressure."

Sam agrees, but Dean ends up waiting out in the hall. When they're finished, Dean lets himself back in and Lance looks a little more serious than she did before.

"Sam's breathing seems fine, but his blood pressure is low. I think that there's definitely something here that needs to be explored. Unexplained weight loss, especially to this extent, can't be ignored. I would like to refer you to have more tests done. Something like this could be because of a number of reasons and it's best if we figure out what's going on sooner rather than later."

Sam gapes at her. "But I'm _fine._ Seriously. I feel totally fine."

Lance's eyes are sympathetic. "Maybe you do, but I think you should speak to a specialist and undergo a few tests to figure this out. I assure you, there is an issue here. Hopefully, it's a small issue, but it's something that needs investigating."

.

"Turn in here," Sam says, pointing at a McDonald's drive thru. They left the clinic fifteen minutes ago and are on their way home when Sam's stomach begins to growl. Dean ignores him and carries on driving until the fast food joint is a speck in the rear-view mirror.

Sam glares at him. "What did you do that for?"

"You don't even like McDonald's, Sam. Ever since a happy meal made you throw up all night when you were seven years old," Dean points out.

"But I'm starving," Sam groans, slumping against the window with a huff.

"Quit being a baby," Dean says. "You ate, like, an entire chicken coop this morning. Besides, thanks to you, we have to buy more groceries."

Sam isn't listening, he's sitting upright with his nose lifted in the air, nostrils flared as he sniffs around the dashboard.

Dean frowns. "Dude, what – "

"Ha!" Sam exclaims, popping open the glove compartment and retrieving an abandoned, month-old Snickers bar from its depths. He tears the wrapping off with his teeth, the chocolate is squished and melted, caramel oozing out and onto Sam's fingers. He bites off two thirds in one go. Dean has one eye on the road and another pinned with sick fascination on Sam as he devours the entire candy bar, then licks every last remnants from the plastic wrapping.

"Did you just _sniff that out?"_ Dean asks. He's staring at Sam rather than the road now, and the car veers, so he quickly yanks the wheel and comes to a stop at the side of the road, engine still running.

Sam doesn't seem to have noticed they aren't even moving anymore, let alone heard anything Dean has said. He's too busy lapping melted chocolate off his fingers the way a dog licks meat off a bone.

* * *

Weird is normal. Weird is part of their everyday job. What's happening with Sam is weirder than weird. They stopped off at the store on their way back to the bunker and filled up five grocery bags with food, and by the time they make it home Sam has already eaten half the contents of one entire bag.

Even Dean didn't know it was possible to eat so quickly.

He stares at Sam; skinny Sam with crumbs all down his shirt, who doesn't seem to notice anything off. He grabs another bag from the back seat and starts munching on an apple as he heads inside. Meanwhile, Dean scratches at the inside of his arm and tries to think. He might have thought all of this was just some freaky medical problem, but after watching Sam sniff out a candy bar from underneath all the crap in the glove compartment he's now sure it's more familiar than that.

He balances the last three grocery bags in his arms and heads inside. Cas is in the kitchen, watching Sam with squinted eyes and a tilted head, the look he reserves for something new and fascinating. Sam, of course, is eating another apple _and_ assembling a ridiculously thick sandwich at the same time.

Dean catches Cas' attention and waves for him to follow him to the library. If Sam even noticed either of them being in the room, he doesn't show it.

"Strange," Cas says, once they're alone in the library.

"You think?" Dean snaps. "Do you know what's up with him or not?"

"I don't," Cas murmurs, eyes flicking in the direction of the kitchen. "The grace I have now – it isn't my own. Normally, I would be able to find the cause of the problem…"

"But your mojo's not up to scratch," Dean finishes for him. He sighs and finds his fingers once again under the crook of his elbow, tracing the raised flesh of the Mark. It burns, cries for attention, but Dean has more important things on his mind. 1) find out what's wrong with Sam, 2) fix Sam, 3) look for a cure for the Mark.

They're set up at the library tables with books and files covering every inch of the surfaces. They've been reading for about half an hour, everything the Men of Letters have on supernatural weight loss and excess eating, when Sam comes wandering into the room with a bag of chips in hand. He tosses a chip in his mouth, crunching obnoxiously loudly, frowning at the two of them.

"What are you doing?" he asks, taking a spare seat beside Cas. He glances down at one of the books, at a rather unpleasant black-and-white photo of a victim of a wasting curse. His mouth curls downwards, "What's this?"

Cas glances at Dean, expression blank. Dean sighs and says, "Something's up with you, Sam."

Sam's eyebrows raise an inch. "Something's up with _me?_ Dean, you're the one with the Mark of Cain. Don't you think we should be trying to fix _that_ instead of reading… whatever it is you're reading."

"You don't even see it, do you?" Dean says. "Sam, you're skinny as hell, despite eating non-stop. How are you not full?"

Sam shrugs. "Dunno. I'm just hungry," he says, then tips the bag of chips up over his wide-open mouth to swallow down the last of the crumbs.

"And don't you think that's weird, Sam?" Dean points out. "You're never hungry. No one gets _this_ hungry."

Sam rolls his eyes and glances at Cas. "He's being ridiculous, right?"

Cas glances down at the table awkwardly. "Not really," he says, looking up at Sam again, eyes narrowing. "Something is off. I can't tell what exactly it is, but something isn't right. It's like… a void."

Sam blinks. "A void?"

"Yes," Cas says. He leans in close to Sam, Sam leans away. "Something that begs to be filled."

"O-kay…" Sam says, climbing out of his seat. "Well, you guys can waste time all you want, I'm going to look for a cure for Dean."

Then he's out the room. Dean glances over to Cas and whispers, "A void? Like an 'I'm sad and life is meaningless' void? Or are you saying there's a black hole inside my brother that wants to be filled with Big Macs?"

Cas is staring at the door Sam just exited through. He tilts his head and says, "I don't know. I can just feel a _hunger_. A darkness."

"What do we do?"

"I don't know. But I suggest he doesn't leave the bunker."

* * *

Sam finds a case. Of course, he does. He's a goddamn news perusing freak.

"No."

"What do you mean 'no'?" Sam demands, tapping away at his computer and eating an entire packet of refrigerated frankfurters at the same time.

"I mean no, Sam. We're not up for a case right now. Not with you…" he cuts of, gesturing a hand at Sam's entirety.

"What?" Sam says, glancing down at himself. He's sucking on the end of one of the sausages, which gives Dean plenty of ammo that he won't be using. The amount of dick jokes he could be making right now, but his mind is elsewhere. Namely, focused on Sam's skeletal frame.

Sam still doesn't seem to notice anything wrong, which makes Dean wonder if this is more than just a physical ailment. Anyone with eyes could see how Sam looks; stick thin. He keeps having to hoist his jeans up on his hips, which are bony and likely sharp enough to cut something. Dean's surprised Sam is still getting around on two feet.

"You're sick, Sam," Dean says, like he's been saying for a while now, but it only seems to go in one of Sam's ears and out the other.

"I'm not sick," Sam says, rolling his eyes like it's the dumbest thing he's ever heard. "You've been taking hunts with a cursed mark on your arm for _months_."

"It's different," Dean bites back.

"Yeah, because there's nothing wrong with me."

Dean takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists under the desk. "How much do you weigh, Sam?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't know. What did the doc say?"

"That was a week ago. You've lost weight since then."

Sam's lips are pressed into a thin line, an indicator that his patience is wearing thin and the conversation is most likely over. "Fine. You don't want to take this hunt?" he says. "I'll go by myself."

Dean's more than ready to bite back, but the moment Sam gets to his feet he stumbles, grabbing the edge of the desk for balance. Dean is up, out of his chair and over by Sam's side by the time Sam's only managed to peel his eyes back open.

"You okay?" Dean asks, dropping a hand onto Sam's shoulder. He nearly recoils when he feels just how bony it is.

"Just got dizzy for a second," Sam says, but he's breathing through his mouth, colour leeching from his face.

"Yeah, you got dizzy because you're sick," Dean says. Without a word, he pulls Sam's arm over his shoulders and guides him slowly towards his bedroom. "You're going to rest, little brother. Let me and Cas take care of this."

"Supposed to be fixing you," Sam mumbles, head leaning tiredly against Dean's arm.

Dean sighs. "The Mark's my problem, Sam. It's my mess. Don't think about that until you're better."

* * *

Dean dreams of a hammer. Long and slender, a gentle weight in his hand, just the right balance for the perfect swing. The metal end of it is heavy, smashes right into the wall if you put enough muscle behind it. He's stalking the hallways, red light pulsing, the mark on his arm sings with the excitement of it all. It's a game of cat and mouse.

Sam has his back to him, head ducked around the corner, watching for Dean, not knowing he's right behind him. Dean moves softly, arm pulling back and swinging hard just as Sam spins around, eyes wide and terrified and –

Dean wakes up suddenly, sweaty limbs tangled up blankets. He flicks on the bedside light and glances at his arm where the mark is looking more irritated, the skin throbs. He pulls his sleeve down and takes a few breaths. His mouth is dry, tongue sticking to the inside of his cheeks. He gets unsteadily to his feet and stumbles, eyes still adjusting to the light, out into the hallway and towards the kitchen.

He pauses when he sees Cas standing in the kitchen doorway, eyes focused inside the room. There's a clang of pots and pans, and Cas turns to Dean, holding a finger to his lips.

"What's going on?" Dean whispers, joining him in the doorway. Sam is in his pyjamas, crouched on the floor by the fridge, packets of raw bacon, chicken and mince-meat on the floor in front of him. He grabs a fillet of chicken breast, pink and shiny and _raw_ , and puts it in his mouth, tearing a tough chunk out of it and chewing slowly.

Dean makes to start forward, but Cas stops him with a hand to his chest.

"Sam is sleeping," he says.

Dean looks over again, and sure enough Sam's eyes are glazed and out of focus. He has to look away again when Sam scoops up a handful of mince-meat. His stomach churns at the sound of Sam's chewing and he clamps his teeth together in the hopes that he won't throw up.

"We have to stop him," he says to Cas. "He's going to make himself sick."

"I tried stopping him," Cas replies, eyes not straying from Sam. "He wouldn't move. He even – he was vicious. Like an animal."

Dean glares at him. "So, we just let him get on with it? He's gonna get salmonella or something."

"I don't think that's an issue," Cas says. "I don't think it's Sam who's eating this. There's something else here. I can feel a presence in this room."

"Demon?"

"Not a demon."

"What is it, then?"

"I don't know, Dean," Cas says, sounding frustrated. He opens his mouth, ready to say something more, but Sam is getting to his feet. He stumbles towards them, hands and chin stained with grease and something watery pink. Dean and Cas part to make room for Sam to pass by them into the hallway.

"Sammy?" Dean says tentatively. Sam keeps walking, so Dean grabs his shoulder and it's only then that he turns around. He shoves Dean against the wall, teeth bared, eyes turned a milky white. Dean bares his teeth right back, the Mark on his arm twinges. He pushes hard, sending Sam into the opposite wall, then he pulls back his fist and sends it flying right into Sam's face.

One hit sends him sprawling to the ground, unconscious, a line of blood running from his nose. Dean shakes out his fist and turns to Cas.

"Help me get him to the dungeon."

* * *

Sam, naturally, is confused when he wakes up chained the centre of a devil's trap. He stirs, face scrunching as he begins to feel the effects of Dean's fist to his face, then peels his eyes open to look up at Cas and Dean.

"What's going on?" he asks, and makes to sit up. Only then does his notice the cuffs and chains around his wrists. He jerks them experimentally, frowning when they don't budge. "Hey!" he snaps, now moved on from confused to pissed.

"It's for your own safety, Sam," Cas says.

"Safety," Sam repeats, glancing around the room. "What the hell? Did you _kidnap_ me from my own bed? What's going on?"

"Something's wrong with you, Sam," Dean explains.

Sam glares at him. "Right back you."

"Dean's right," Cas says. "There's something else in this room, Sam. It's dark."

"The Mark of Cain," Sam points out. "You sure you're not just mixing things up?"

Cas glances warily at Dean, or rather, at the spot on his arm where the Mark is etched. "The Mark of Cain, yes, that's a darkness. I feel that all the time, but there's something else. It's getting stronger by the day, and it's attached to you, Sam."

Sam snorts. "This is ridiculous. Would you unlock these and we'll go upstairs and pretend this never happened?" he jangles his chains.

"We can't do that, Sammy," Dean says. "We can't even be sure it's you talking to us right now."

"That's ridiculous. Of course it's me," Sam sighs exasperatedly. He looks at them both with a steady gaze and says, "Don't you see how crazy this is?"

He sounds like Sam. He's wearing a very Sam-like expression on his face. But he still has the stains of the raw meat he devoured only a little while earlier clinging to his skin. His shirt hangs off his frame, it practically swamps him. His cheekbones are high and pronounced, his fingers are bony, his collar bones are sharp where they peek out from under his shirt. Sam's never been so thin, not even when his teenaged growth spurt left him more bones than boy.

He looks _sick_. He looks like he could be dying.

"We'll fix this," Cas says, and Dean isn't entirely sure who he's speaking to.

* * *

"Paracitus Inanis."

"What?"

" _Paracitus Inanis,"_ Cas repeats. "Also known as The Empty Parasite. It is a long-extinct supernatural species of parasitic worm."

"You think Sam has a parasite?" Dean asks, leaning across the table to get a glimpse at the book Cas is reading. There's a grisly drawing of a long worm with white eyes and a circle of razor sharp teeth. "Huh. Looks kind of like the Kahn Worm."

"Kahn Worm?"

"One of Eve's wacko creations," Dean explains. "It got inside peoples' ears and controlled their brains. You think Sam has worms?"

"Worm," Cas corrects. "It says here that Paracitus Inanis must hatch from the egg and grow through infancy inside a host. Once the worm is too large to be contained, it will exit the host."

So much about all of this is too disgusting to think about, but he has to ask. "Exit the host how?"

Cas clears his throat and recites from the book, "When the parasite abandons its host, it exits the same way it enters, via the gullet."

Dean feels his face twist. He has seen the grossest of the gross, but this is something else. This is like something out of _Alien_. How did Dean miss Sam getting attacked by a Facehugger?

"Sam was hunting while you were… gone," Cas says, answering Dean's unspoken question. "Perhaps that was when he contracted the parasite."

Dean sighs and rubs his hand over his tired face. He hasn't been sleeping much since he shed the black eyes. Nightmares. And guilt. And now, there's a parasite in his brother that needs removing. "How do we get rid of it?"

Cas glances back down at his book. "The parasite relies on the host to be fed, which is why Sam has been eating so much but losing weight at the same time. If the food supply is cut off, the worm will search for another host."

"So, we have to starve it?" Dean asks.

"We have to starve Sam, too," Cas corrects. "He's already malnourished. This may kill him."

"We can't just leave it in there," Dean says. "We keep an eye on him the whole time, if something goes bad – you got any mojo left?"

Cas looks a little embarrassed, if it's possible. This whole stolen grace thing must weigh on him more than Dean even cared to think about. It's strange sitting in the library with him, researching like he and Sam would for a case. It's almost like Cas has filled Sam's vacant role.

"I'm not letting him die," Dean says. "Not after everything."

Cas can't give him an answer to that.

* * *

The ridge of Sam's spine is steep and sharp, protruding under his skin like there isn't enough room. The shape of his ribs is harsh, like hollowed out grooves down his side. His shirt has been shed, the fabric caught against the manacles. He's pale and sweaty, drops of moisture sliding down his skin.

The moment Dean and Cas open the doors, and the light from the store room comes flooding inside, he cants his head to the side and observes them. The desperation he'd had when they'd locked him in is gone, because maybe Sam is gone. There's no _please, guys, don't do this_ or _I'm fine. I'm_ me _._

Just quiet.

"We figured out how to fix this," Dean says, and Sam's eyes flash over to him.

"And how will you fix this?" Sam says, and Dean knows it isn't Sam. Sam wouldn't smile like that.

"You hungry?" Dean asks. Sam's smile drops and his eyes narrow. Dean grins. "Well, you slimy bastard, you're going on a diet."

"We'll give you the chance to leave now," Cas offers. "Before things become difficult."

"Difficult for me, or difficult for you?" says Sam. "I'm quite comfortable here, thank you. Besides, if I leave now, you'll smite me with those God-given powers of yours…" he breaks out into a wicked grin. "Oh, wait. You're running on a low battery. Barely even Angel anymore. What can you do to me?"

"I was hoping you'd ask," Dean says, holding out the blowtorch from where he'd had it behind his back. "I always liked my meat a little crispy."

Sam pales. "Do what you like," he says. "I'm not leaving. And you can't hurt me without hurting your brother."

Sam, or rather the parasite inside him, decides on the silent treatment after that, turning around to face away from them. Dean and Cas pull up chairs and wait. And wait. And wait. He's teaching Cas how to play poker – finally Cas' constant blank expression comes in handy – when things begin to change.

Sam is restless, shifting inside the devil's trap, tugging on his chains.

"Feeling peckish?" Dean asks. The thing glares at him.

"You're going to kill your brother like this," it says, gasping. "Not that you'd mind. You tried to bash his head in not long ago, didn't you?"

"Trying to play mind games?" Dean says. "Cute. Shut up and get out, would you?"

"I will get out of these chains and your flesh will be the first thing I feast on."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Threats ain't going to work either."

"Dean, it might be best not to engage," Cas suggests, eyes still on their game of poker. "It will be some time before it leaves Sam's body, and it _will_ leave."

Dean shrugs and returns to the game, ignoring Sam hissing at them over his shoulder.

* * *

"Please," Sam gasps. Not-Sam. He's curled up on his side, shivering like he's freezing cold, covered in sweat with his hair clinging to his forehead over milky white eyes. "Please, you're killing me."

"That's the plan," says Dean. His voice betrays him by cracking, so he straightens his back and folds his arms over his chest. He has to remember that this thing on the floor isn't Sam. Jesus. How many times has Sam not been Sam?

"You're killing your brother," it says.

"No, _you're_ killing my brother," Dean bites back. "Get the fuck out."

"Do you even care?" it asks, shuddering. "Your brother is in pain, and all you do is sit there and play cards. You can feel it, can't you? That Mark is leeching away the last of your humanity. You might not have black eyes anymore, but you're not one hundred percent human. It's only a matter of time. I know it, you know it, even Sam knows it. You're going to kill your brother and you're going to like it – "

" _Dean!"_ Cas shouts.

Dean is on his feet, Sam's neck clamped between his fingers. He lets go and jolts back like he's been electrocuted. The thing inside Sam grins.

"There it is," it says.

Dean is breathing hard, chest heaving, hands shaking. The skin of his inner arm burns in a way that's almost a relief. Cas is lingering over his shoulder and Dean can feel where his arm is reached out and lingering in the air, not daring to take hold of his shoulder. On the floor, Sam is wasting away, pale and skeletal, grinning from ear to ear, skin creased around the milky whiteness of his eyes.

Cas finally grabs his shoulder and pulls him back into the store room.

"Take a walk," he says, hard-eyed.

"But – "

" _Go."_

* * *

Dean doesn't wander far. He makes it up the stairs and down the corridor until he comes face to face with the dent he made in the plaster, a dent he'd intended to make in Sam's skull. Sam, who is now chained to the very same spot Dean was weeks ago, wrapped up in something dark and oily and vicious, just like Dean was. But Dean's darkness was himself. Sam was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, without anyone to watch his back.

If Dean had been there, none of this would have happened.

He stares at the hole in the wall, thinks _thank god I taught Sam to be quick_. But God was never around to thank. He's breathing more steadily now, but his heart is still racing, more from fear than anything. Sam could die. For weeks, Sam has been dying and Dean never even noticed.

He brushes his fingers along the dent, thinks about how he should fix it when he has the time, then he turns back around and heads for the dungeon.

There are god-awful noises coming from beyond the store room. It's wet and thick, hacking, coughing, spine-curlingly sick. Cas is hovering more than standing, like he's torn between going to Sam's side and staying right where he is. Dean pauses at the edge of the devil's trap, not because he's afraid of what's inside, but because he's worried if he steps over he might not be able to get out again.

Sam gags and spits out a gob of spit that's grey and bubbling. He glances at Dean and his eyes are hazel and wet, the whites of them are turning red. He shudders and hunches over, neck straining. His limbs are shaking, only barely keeping him upright.

He hacks again, and this time the head of something thick and sluggish slides out of his mouth. Sam's eyes go wide and he does a backwards crawl as far as the chains will let him in an attempt to escape it. The worm is more like a snake, longer than Dean's arm, slithering up Sam's throat and out of his mouth like something out of a horror movie. But Dean has seen horror movies, and they're nowhere near as bad as real life. Nowhere near as awful as this.

The second the tail is out and slapping the concrete dungeon floor with a wet _smack_ , Sam crumbles. His arms and legs fold and he lies there on his side, heaving breaths, still gagging. The thing makes to slither in Dean's direction and he stumbles back, but it's faster than he'd expected. It begins to curl around his leg and he can see its milky white eyes and razor sharp circle of teeth. Trying to kick it off only makes it cling tighter.

Cas appears, the palm of his hand lit up with pure light bright enough to blind Dean for a second. The pressure around his leg releases, then there's frantic hissing and the smell of burning meat. Dean peels an eye open and sees a charred streak across the floor beneath Cas' feet.

At the centre of the room, Sam rolls onto his back with a deep, rasping breath. Dean crawls over and pats Sam's cheek until he opens his eyes.

"God…" Sam mumbles, then coughs. There's oily, grey saliva running down his chin. "That was…"

"Disgusting," Dean finishes. Sam gives a weak nod of agreement, and closes his eyes again. Dean nudges his shoulder. "No sleeping yet, okay?"

"M-hm," Sam answers, still not opening his eyes.

Cas is there, crouching down by Sam's head. He places his palm over Sam's forehead, emitting a soft glow that makes Sam shudder.

"I've healed some of the internal damage," he says. "But there's a lot I can't heal. It will take time."

Dean sighs and rubs a hand over the bare skin of Sam's trembling arm. "Let's get you to bed, buddy."

* * *

Sam's mouth curls with distaste as Dean holds out a spoonful of oatmeal. He turns his head so there's no place for it to go but back in the bowl. Dean sighs and drops the spoon with a clang of metal against ceramic.

"You need to eat, Sam."

"I'm think I'm put off eating for life."

" _Eat."_

Sam drops his head back onto his pillow. He doesn't look much better than he did when he was hosting a supernatural parasite. He hasn't put on any pounds yet, and it makes him look like a chemo patient. At least he's clean and has some colour back in his cheeks; the only things keeping him from looking like a corpse.

"If I eat anything, I'll throw it back up," Sam says.

"Good thing I brought a bucket."

Sam glowers, but he doesn't have enough energy to really mean it. All he's done the past couple of days is sleep or throw up. Dean's getting more worried by the day. He was stupid to hope that Sam would just bounce back after everything that's happened.

"I'm tired," Sam whispers, eyes already closed. "I'll eat tomorrow."

Dean pats his hand. "Fine. Tomorrow, or I'm taking you to the hospital to get a tube inserted."

Sam doesn't register the threat, having already drifted off to sleep. Dean tugs the bed quilt up over Sam's chest, staying seated by his side a little longer. Scratching absently at the Mark, he lets the guilt settle in his stomach to turn sour. Sam's cheeks are hollow, eyes sunken, wrists slim enough for Dean to circle and have his fingers meet.

There's a thought at the back of his mind that tells him Sam is weak and defenceless. He wouldn't be able to stop an attack. Not from a monster or a person or a hammer.

There's something parasitic in Dean that needs to be killed.

* * *

Thanks so much for all of the prompts! And thank you for reading! (I hope this didn't gross you out too much)


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